“What do you think of our lawn mowers, Your Excellency? They’re sort of cobbers of yours, Australian Merinos. Their ancestors came out with the First Fleet.”
The ADC snapped, “Do not address His Excellency without permission, Garcia.”
“Mr. Garcia to you, Mister. And, anyhow, this is my world, not yours.”
Grimes shoved his oar in, hoping thereby to avert an acrimonious argument. He asked, “And do you have any other Australian animals here, Mr. Garcia?”
“Only yourself, Your Excellency.”
Grimes laughed and the ADC growled wordlessly.
“Our beef cattle are Argentine stock,” went on the driver, “and our dairy herds are from some little island back on Earth, Jersey. The pigs and the hens? From anywhere and everywhere, I guess.”
The sheep were finally past and the car increased speed, passing a huge statue, a bronze giantess whose heroic proportions were revealed rather than hidden by her flowing draperies. She was holding aloft, in her right hand, a flaming torch. Clouds of flying insects—or insectlike creatures—attracted by the fatal lure of the flaring gas were immolating themselves by the thousand.
“I have often wondered,” said the driver philosophically, “why the bastards, since they like the light so much, don’t come out during the day. . . .”
An interesting problem, thought Grimes.
The vehicle pulled up in the wide portico. Waiting to receive Grimes was Colonel Bardon, in all the splendor of his mess full dress. With him was a group of local dignitaries—heavily bearded men in black velvet suits, in white, floppy-collared shirts with flowing, scarlet neckties, women in low-cut, black velvet dresses with scarlet scarves about their throats.
The ADC got out of the car first and stood to rigid attention. Grimes got out, putting on his hat. He raised it as Bardon saluted with a flourish, raised it again as the male Liberians swept off their own headgear—black, broad-brimmed and with scarlet bands—and as the ladies curtseyed. Then the party, Bardon and Grimes in the lead, passed through the huge double doors, held open by white-liveried servitors (more New Cantonese, thought Grimes) into an anteroom large enough to serve as a hangar for a fair-sized dirigible. The vast expanse of floor was local marble, highly polished, in which the multicolored veins were brightly scintillant. The high walls were covered with crimson, gold-embroidered silk. Overhead the huge electroliers glittered prismatically.
Attentive servants took hats, carried them away somewhere. Others swung open the enormous doors affording admission to the Reception Hall. This had a floor area that would have been ample for the apron of a minor spaceport. The decor was similar to that of the vestibule but on a much greater scale. Awaiting Grimes was the cream of Liberian society, the black-and-scarlet-clad Anarchist grandees and their ladies. At the far end of the vast hall were two platforms, red draped. On the lower but wider dais was a band, drums and gleaming brass. On the higher one Madam President was sitting in state; her chair was not quite a throne and the tiara adorning her glossy, black hair was not quite a crown. Behind her was a huge, gold-framed portrait of a heavily bearded worthy.
“Who’s that?” whispered Grimes to Bardon. “Karl Marx?”
“Better not let anybody hear you say that, Your Excellency. That’s Bakunin.”
“Oh.”
The music started. Grimes stiffened to attention, as did Bardon and the ADC. The Liberians also stood, but without rigidity. Nonetheless it was a mark of respect. Many of them sang. Grimes was both surprised and pleased that so many knew the words.
Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong
Under the shade of a coolabahs tree,
And he sang as he watched and waited till his billy boiled,
‘Who’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?’
Grimes wondered if those jumbuks, grazing on the wide lawns outside the Palace, could hear the national song of their long ago and far away homeland. And did they have an ancestral memory of the sheep-stealing swagman, a man who had been far more of an anarchist than these Liberians who attached that label to themselves.
Then it was the turn of the Terran anthem. Hardly anybody knew the words and the tune was not one to stick in the memory.
Sons of Terra, strong and free.
Faring forth through Time and Space,
As far as human eye can see
We run our sacred, fateful race . . .
Grimes wondered which was worse, the words or the music.
Finally Liberia had its innings. Almost everybody sang.
Liberia’s sons let us rejoice
For we are strong and free . . .
“Mphm,” grunted Grimes. Who was free these days?
We sing our song with heart and voice
In praise of Liberty!
And praise we, too, our homeworld, so free from want and care.
Stronghold of all the freedoms—
Advance, Liberia fair!
There was a final flourish of drums, then relative silence.
Bardon said, “And now, Your Excellency, I have to present you to Madam President.”
“Lead on, MacDuff,” said Grimes. He knew that he had misquoted but did not think that the Colonel would be aware of this.
“The name is Bardon, Your Excellency. Colonel Bardon.”
The black-and-scarlet crowd parted like the Red Sea before the Israelites, opening clear passage toward the presidential dais along which Grimes, Bardon and the ADC marched, their heels ringing on the marble floor, keeping time to the rhythmic mutter of a single drum. The new Governor was acutely conscious that he was being observed, that he was being curiously regarded by all these bearded men and handsome women. (There may have been some ladies who could not be so categorized but he did not notice any.) He saw that Estrelita O’Higgins had risen from her thronelike chair, was making a stately descent of the short flight of red-carpeted stairs. If only she were holding a torch, thought Grimes, she would look just like one of those statues of Miss Liberty.
She stood there, at the foot of the stairs, waiting for him.
And who bowed to whom? Grimes wondered. Why had he not made a proper study of the protocol for such occasions? She was the (allegedly) elected ruler of a planet—but he was the appointed viceroy of Imperial Earth. Would she extend a gracious hand for him to kiss? At the spaceport they had bowed to each other, practically simultaneously, but this was the official reception, the state occasion.
She knew the drill (surely for this planet only!) even if he did not. She extended her long, smooth, pale arms and flung them around him, engulfing him in a powerful embrace. She must have been eating something with garlic in it, thought Grimes. But he returned her hearty kiss.
She released him, turning him around so that they were both facing the people.
“Comrades!” she cried in her deep contralto. “Comrades! I present to you our new Governor, John Grimes. The Federation, this time, has made a wise choice. John Grimes is a man of action. John Grimes is a man of the world, of many worlds, who knows that each and every planet has its own character. He knows that we, here on Liberia, have our own character. He knows that we have opened our world and our hearts to the poor, the distressed and the oppressed of many planets. There are people here, our guests, who, were it not for us, would be living lives of deepest misery—or who would not be living at all.
“Governor John Grimes, I am sure, will appreciate what we have done, what we are doing.
“I ask you, comrades, to welcome John Grimes and to take him to your hearts, just as you have taken so very many less fortunate outworlders.”
A New Cantonese servant was bowing before them, extending a golden tray upon which were three tall goblets, each filled with a red wine. The President and the Colonel waited until Grimes had taken his before picking up theirs. Other servants had circulated through the hall. Soon everybody was holding a charged glass.
“Viva Grimes!” cried Estrelita O’Higgins, raising her goblet. (She was more than ever like
those statues.)
“Viva Grimes!” sounded loudly from the body of the hall. “Viva Grimes!”
And everybody has had a drink but me, thought Grimes wryly.
He waited until the toast had been drunk, then made his own. “Long live Liberty!” He was probably more sincere, he hoped, than those who, so noisily, had drunk to his health. The wine wasn’t bad, although a mite too sweet.
Chapter 11
Guided by Estrelita O’Higgins, accompanied by Colonel Bardon, Grimes made the rounds of the great reception hall. The ADC trailed behind for a while, then lost himself in the crowd. The new Governor was introduced to the people who—in theory—were now his subjects. He made and listened to small talk. Now and again he was able to initiate a discussion on more serious matters. He sampled snacks from the buffet tables and enjoyed the savory, highly spiced morsels. An attentive servant continually replenished his glass, even after only a couple of sips. On any other world but this, Grimes thought, a Governor would remain in one place and the people would be brought to meet him. Possibly this Liberian way of doing things was better. At least the newly installed dignitary did not go hungry or thirsty.
He met ministers of state and media personalities. He fended off searching questions about his recent experiences as a commodore of privateers. He asked questions himself, some of which were answered frankly while others were not. Politicians, he thought, were much of a muchness no matter what labels they had attached to themselves.
His conversation with Eduardo Lopez, Minister of Immigration was interesting.
“You must realize, Your Excellency, that I have little choice regarding the ethnicity of our immigrants. To deny any distressed person or persons sanctuary on racial grounds would be altogether contrary to our . . . constitution? Yes. Constitution. . . .”
“I thought,” said Grimes, “that a society founded on the principles of Anarchism wasn’t supposed to have such a thing.”
“Contrary to our principles,” said the President firmly.
“You are right as always, Estrelita,” said the fat politician gallantly. “Principles. Of course, if I received a request for permission to enter from, say, an El Doradan, a representative of a society notorious for its devotion to capitalism, I should be obliged to refuse. But the poor, distressed and homeless, of whatever race or color, I must welcome with open arms.”
“We must welcome,” said the President.
“As I was saying—we must welcome.”
“And can these immigrants become full citizens?” asked Grimes, although he already knew the answer to that question.
“Of course, provided that they show proof that they are fit and proper persons to become Liberians.”
Grimes looked around him. Apart from the servants all those present seemed to be of Terran Anglo-Saxon or Latin stock. There were no Orientals, no Negroes.
“Have any outworlders yet achieved citizenship?” he asked.
“Er . . . no. You see, Your Excellency, the major qualification is freedom. As long as a person is in debt to the State he is not free. Once he has earned enough money to repay the debt he is free . . .”
“Debt?” asked Grimes.
“Resettlement is a costly business, Your Excellency, as you as a shipowner must know. Transportation between worlds . . .”
“The responsibility, I understand, of the Federation.”
“Even so, there are costs, heavy costs. People come here. They must be fed, housed, found employment. . . .”
“Employment,” echoed Grimes. “Menial work. Manual labor, for not very high wages. . . .”
“And would you pay a field hand, Your Excellency, the salary that you, highly trained and qualified, would expect as a shipmaster?”
“The laborer, in any field, is worthy of his hire,” said the President.
Her hand firmly on Grimes’s elbow she steered him away from Lopez, toward the flamboyantly red-haired Kitty O’Halloran, Director of Tri Vi Liberia. She was a large woman, fat rather than plump, and she gushed. “Your Excellency. Commodore. I’m dying to get you on to one of our programs. Just an interview, but in depth. Just the story, told by yourself, of some of your outrageous adventures. . . .”
“Outrageous?” parried Grimes. “I’m a respectable Governor. “
“But you weren’t always. You’ve been a pirate. . . .”
“A privateer,” he corrected her.
“Who knows the difference?” She tittered. “From what I’ve heard, you didn’t know yourself. . . .”
Again there was the guiding pressure on his elbow. This time he was to meet Luigi Venito, Minister of Interstellar Trade, a tall, distinguished man with steely gray hair and—unusual in this company—a neatly trimmed beard.
“I thought, Your Excellency,” said Venito, “that I might one day deal with you in your capacity as a shipowner. To meet you as a Governor is an unexpected pleasure.”
“Bad pennies,” said Grimes, “turn up in the most unexpected places.”
“Ha ha. But I refuse to believe that the Terran World Assembly would appoint a bad penny to a highly responsible position.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Grimes. “And, in any case, governments are rarely as moral as those whom they govern.” (There are times, he thought, when I feel that I should have a Boswell, recorder in hand, tagging after me . . .) “I hope that your government is an exception to the rule.”
Venito chuckled. “Some say that we shouldn’t have a government at all, not on this world. But after the first few years our founding fathers—and mothers, of course, Madam President—were obliged to admit that pure Anarchism doesn’t work. A state of anarchy is not Anarchism. But we are free, unregimented, doing the things that we want to do as long as we do not infringe upon the rights of our fellow citizens. From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs. My own ability is trade, buying in the cheapest markets, selling in the dearest. All for the greatest good, naturally, of Liberia . . .”
He had been drinking, of course, not too much, perhaps, but enough to loosen his tongue. Grimes ignored the President’s attempt to push him along to another group. There was one point that he wanted to clear up, a matter that had not been fully dealt with in the data that he had been given to study on the voyage out from Earth.
He said, “You must have made some interesting deals in your time. . . . Agricultural machinery, for example. . . .”
Venito laughed. “Yes. That was a good deal! The new colony on Halvan—and the ship carrying all their robot harvesters and the like months overdue! She’s listed as missing, presumed lost, at Lloyd’s. I think that the presumption still holds—but that’s not important. . . .”
Only to the crew, thought Grimes, and their relatives.
“And we had still more refugees coming in and so I said to Lopez, ‘Put these people to work in the fields—and I’ll flog all our agricultural machinery at better-than-new prices!’ And I did just that.”
“Clever,” said Grimes. “Ill winds, and all that. But it wouldn’t have been so good for Liberia if you didn’t have the indentured labor system, if your field workers were being paid decent wages.”
“What is a decent wage, Your Excellency? Enough to buy the necessities of life—food, shelter, clothing—with a little left over for the occasional luxury. That’s a decent wage. On this world nobody goes cold or hungry. What more do you want?”
“The freedom to change your job when you feel like it, for a start.”
“But all our citizens enjoy that freedom.”
“Yes. All your citizens, Minister.”
“Citizenship has to be earned, Your Excellency.”
The President not only had her hand firmly on his elbow; she pinched him quite painfully. He took the hint and allowed her to conduct him to a meeting with the Minister for Culture and the lady with him, the Chief Librarian of Liberia.
They knew his background, of course, and, talking down from their intellectual eminence, made it plain tha
t they held spacemen in low esteem.
Chapter 12
The reception was over.
The President and Colonel Bardon, very much like husband and wife getting rid of the guests after a party and looking forward to holding a post mortem on the night’s doings as soon as they were in bed, escorted Grimes out to the waiting car, which was at the head of the queue of vehicles. Most of these were trishaws.
The ADC was there, with the two soldiers. All three of them made a creditable attempt at standing to attention. Grimes wondered briefly how the two enlisted men had spent their evening; obviously they had found congenial company somewhere. He knew how the ADC had passed the time; that officer had been mainly in the company of two not unattractive girls who seemed to have monopolized the services of one of the wine waiters. Surely ADCs, Grimes had thought disapprovingly, should always be at the beck and call of their lords and masters. But this was Liberia where all animals—unless they had the misfortune to be refugees—were equal. (But surely a Governor was more equal than the others.)
“Good night, Your Excellency.”
“Good night, Madam President.” Grimes clasped her extended hand. “Thank you for the party.”
“It was a pleasure having you.”
“Good night, Your Excellency.”
“Good night, Colonel.”
Grimes removed his tall hat before climbing into the passenger compartment of the car. The driver turned his head to regard him sardonically.
“Feeling no pain, Gov?” he asked. (He, too, must have spent a convivial evening.)
When in Rome . . . thought Grimes resignedly. He said, “I’ll survive.”
“More than your predecessor did . . .” muttered the chauffeur.
The ADC and the soldiers embarked. The doors slid shut. The car drove away.
Grimes drowsed most of the way back to the Residence.
Ride the Star Winds Page 6