“I know only one person who answers to your description of her,” muttered Grimes. “But tell me, is she, too, a guest at the palace?”
“No. She did come calling around once, flashing her press ID, but Ellena took an instant dislike to her. The guards have strict orders never to admit her again.”
“Thank All The Odd Gods of the Galaxy for that! With any luck at all I’ll not be meeting her again.”
“Then your luck’s run out. You surely don’t think, do you, that you’ll be confined to the palace during your entire stay here? Apart from anything else you’ll be helping me with my ethnographical research—and I’ve little doubt that our path will, from time to time, cross that of the fair researcher for Star Scandals.”
“I don’t frequent low joints,” said Grimes virtuously.
“Then you’ve changed!” she laughed.
He laughed with her. “Oh, well, I shan’t really mind meeting Fenella again for a talk over old times. But it’s a pity that Shirl and Darleen aren’t here as well . . .”
“And who are they?” asked Maggie, with a touch of jealousy.
“Just girls,” said Grimes.
And then the Third Officer appeared to help carry the baggage down to the airlock.
Chapter 5
At the foot of the ramp two of Heraclion’s men loaded Grimes’s baggage into the rear of the hovercar—a vehicle that was doing its best to look like an ancient Greek chariot—while the commodore said his farewells to Captain Gunning and the star tramp’s officers. The colonel took his seat alongside the driver who, like his superior, was dressed in brass and leather although with much less of the glittering metal on display. Maggie and Grimes sat immediately behind the two Spartans.
The ducted fans whined loudly and raised eddies of dust. The vehicle lifted itself in its skirts, slid away from the spaceship, picking up speed as it did so. Soon it was clear of the spaceport environs, proceeding at a good rate toward the city. There was other vehicular traffic—chariotlike hovercraft, both military and civil, carts piled with produce and drawn by what looked like donkeys and mules, imports from distant Earth. There were, as there had been on the occasion of Grimes’s previous visit, squads of young men, who appeared to be soldiers, on motorcycles but there were others on horseback.
Grimes remarked on what was, to him, archaic means of transport.
Heraclion, speaking back over his shoulder, said, “There are those among our new citizens, Commodore, who want to put the clock back to the time of the Spartan Empire on Earth . . . .” (The Spartan Empire? wondered Grimes. He most certainly could not recall any mention of such during his studies of Terran history.) “Even so, I have to admit that a troop of cavalry mounted on horseback is a far better spectacle than one mounted on motorcycles.”
The hovercar, its siren screaming to demand right of way, was now fast approaching the outskirts of the city. It sped along the narrow road between the rows of low, white houses and less privileged traffic hastily made way for it. A turn was made into what was little more than a winding lane. This, Grimes realized, must be the entertainment district. In the old days, during his first visit to Sparta, such a venue was undreamed of. Gaudy neon signs, dim on the sunny side of the street but bright in the shadow, advertised the delights available to those with money behind the heavy wooden doors, the shuttered windows. The lettering, although aping the Cyrillic alphabet, spelled out its messages in Standard English.
DIMITRIO’S LAMB BARBECUE—TOPLESS LADY CHEFS
(Grimes could appreciate the female cooks’ need for aprons; barbecues are apt to sputter and spatter.)
HELEN’S HETAERAE
(And did one drop in there for intellectual conversation?)
ARISTOTLE’S ARENA
This was a much larger building than the rest. Under the flickering main sign were others:
GALACTIC GLAMOUR
EXOTIC WARRIOR MAIDS
OFFPLANET AMAZONS
LIMITED SEASON ONLY
Maggie had to put her mouth to his ear to be heard above the shrieking siren. “That’s the outfit I was telling you about. The one that your old girlfriend is doing the series on.” She laughed. “The trouble with Aristotle is that he’s not a very good historian. His entertainment is more Roman than Grecian. I think that he’d even put on Lions versus Christians if he thought he could get away with it.”
“Have you been there?”
“Yes. That’s where I met Fenella Pruin. After I admitted that I knew you she laughed nastily and said, ‘This is just the sort of show that he’d enjoy. A pity he’s not here.’ I didn’t tell her, of course, that you were on your way to Sparta.”
“Thank you. With only a little bit of luck she’ll never know I’m here.”
“She’ll know all right. The local media have already bruited abroad that the famous Commodore John Grimes is to be the guest of the Archon.”
“Then I’ll just have to rely on you to keep her out of my hair.”
They were out of the Street of the Haetaeri as the red-light district was called, making the ascent of the low hill on top of which stood the Archon’s palace. Troops were drawn up before the long, pillared portico, weapons and accouterments gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. Short spears were raised in salute as the hovercar whined to a stop and subsided to the ground.
Grimes looked at the soldiers appreciatively. They were young women, all of them, uniformed in short white tunics and heavy, brass-studded sandals with knee-high lacings. The leather cross-straps and belts defined their breasts and hips sharply. Shoulder length hair, in almost every case glossily blonde, flowed from under their plumed helmets.
“The Lady Ellena’s Amazon Guard,” commented Heraclion sourly.
“I’d sooner have them than a bunch of hairy-arsed Federation Marines,” said Grimes.
Maggie’s elbow dug sharply into his ribs.
They disembarked then—Maggie, Grimes and the colonel.
The Amazon officer marched before them, her spear held high. Other girls fell in on either side of them, escorting them. They passed through the great doorway into the hall, dim after the blazing sunlight outside, to where the Archon and his lady, flanked by berobed dignitaries of both sexes, awaited them.
Grimes found it hard to recognize Brasidus. The young, clean-shaven sergeant whom he had known was now a portly, middle-aged man, his hair and full beard touched with gray. Perhaps it was the white robe with its broad purple trim that gave an illusion of stoutness but the commodore did not think so. Brasidus would never have been able to buckle on the simple uniform that he had worn in the old days.
And the large woman who stood beside the Archon was indubitably stout. She, too, wore a purple-trimmed robe. Her rather spuriously golden hair was piled high and elaborately upon her head but even without this added height she would have been at least fifteen centimeters taller than her husband. She looked down her long nose at the guests with very cold blue eyes and her full mouth was set in a disapproving line.
The Amazon guard grounded their spears with an echoing crash.
Brasidus stepped forward, both hands extended.
Grimes had started to bow but realized that this salutation would not be correct. He straightened up and extended his own right hand. The Archon grasped it warmly in both of his.
“John Grimes! It is indeed good to see you again, after all these years! My house is yours while you are on Sparta!”
“Thank you . . . Lord,” said Grimes.
“And have you forgotten my name? To my friends I am, and always will be, just Brasidus. But allow me to present my lady wife. Ellena, my dear, this is John Grimes, of whom you have often heard . . . .”
“The famous pirate commodore,” said the woman in neutral tones.
“And John, this is the Lady Ellena.”
She extended a large, plump hand with scarlet fingernails. Grimes somehow got the impression that he was to do no more than touch it. He did that.
There were other introduc
tions, to each of the assembled councilmen and councilwomen. There was an adjournment to a large room where refreshments were served by girls who circulated among the guests pouring the wine—a Terran retsina, Grimes decided, although he thought that it had not traveled well—from long necked amphorae. There were feta cheese and black olives (imported?) to nibble.
Finally the party broke up and Grimes was escorted to his quarters by one of the servant wenches. They could have been a hotel suite on just about any planet.
He was sitting down for a quiet smoke when Maggie joined him.
“Dinner’s at 1900 hours,” she told him. “No need to get out your penguin suit or a dress uniform. It’ll be just a small occasion with Brasidus, you and me reminiscing over old times.”
“What about the Lady Ellena?”
“She’s off to a meeting. She’s Patron of the Women’s Branch of the New Hellas Association.”
“But . . .” He hesitated. “Is it all right to talk?”
“It is. I was supplied with the very latest thing in bug detectors. When it’s not detecting bugs it functions quite well as a wristwatch.”
“What about Ellena and the New Hellas mob?”
“I don’t think she’s mixed up in any of their subversive activities. She’s a silly bitch, but not that silly. She knows which side her bread is buttered. But she loves being fawned upon and flattered.”
“I take it she’s of relatively humble origins.”
“Correct. She was an assistant in a ladies’ hairdressing salon in Melbourne, Australia. She was proud of her Greek ancestry. When New Sparta was thrown open to immigration from Earth she scraped together her savings and borrowed quite a few credits—which she repaid, by the way; I give her credit for that—with the idea of setting up in the same line of business here, getting in on the ground floor. Of course, in the beginning ladies’ hairdressers were something of a novelty and quite a few men wandered into them by mistake to get their flowing locks trimmed and their beards curled. Brasidus made that mistake. He didn’t know much about women then and she knew who he was—he wasn’t yet Archon but he was on the way up—and poured on the motherly charm. She was able to hitch her wagon to his rising star.”
“So Cinderella married the handsome prince,” said Grimes sardonically. “And they all lived happily ever after.”
She said, “We have some living to do ourselves after all this time.”
She led the way into his bedroom.
Chapter 6
It had been a long time, as she had said, but after the initial fumbling there was the old, sweet familiarity, the fitting of part to part, the teasing caress of hands on skin, of lips on lips and then, from her, the sharp yet melodious cries as he drove deeper and deeper and his own groans as her arms and legs imprisoned his body, her heels pummeling his buttocks.
They did not—they were out of practice with each other—reach climax together but her orgasm preceded his by only a few seconds.
They would rather have remained in the rumpled bed, to talk lazily for a while and then, after not too long an interval, to resume their love-making but, after all, they were guests and, furthermore, guests in the palace of a planetary ruler. Such people, no matter how humble their origins (or, perhaps, especially if their origins were humble) do not care to be kept waiting. So they showered together—but did not make an erotic game of it—and resumed their clothing. Maggie, who, by this time, was well-acquainted with the layout of the palace, led Grimes to the small, private dining room where they were to eat with the Archon. They arrived there just before Brasidus.
The meal was a simple one, served by two very homely maidservants. There was a sort of casserole of some meat that might have been lamb, very heavily spiced. There was a rough red wine that went surprisingly well with the main course. For a sweet there was not too bad baklava, accompanied by thick, syrupy coffee. “We do not grow our own yet,” said Brasidus, “but we hope to be doing so by next year. Soon, John, there will be no need for your Sister Sue to bring us cargoes of such luxuries from Earth.” He laughed. “And what will you do then to make an honest living? Return to a career of piracy or find another governor’s job?” There was brandy, in warmed inhalers, a quite good Metaxa.
The serving wenches cleared away the debris of the meal.
Having asked the permission of their host Grimes lit his pipe and Maggie a cigarillo. They were expecting, both of them, to settle down to an evening of reminiscent conversation over the brandy bottle but Brasidus surprised them.
“Help yourselves to more drinks, if you wish,” he told them. “I am going to change. I shall not keep you long.”
“To change, Brasidus?” asked Grimes.
“Yes. I have heard much of that new show at the Arena—you, Maggie, told me of it. I have not seen it yet. Ellena does not approve of such entertainment. I thought that this evening would be an ideal opportunity for me to witness the . . . the goings on.”
“You’re the boss,” said Grimes.
When he was gone Maggie said, “He likes doing the Haroun al-Raschid thing now and again. Strolling among his citizens incognito, keeping his finger on the pulse and all the rest of it. Ellena doesn’t altogether approve, but when the cat’s away . . . .”
“And we’re among the mice this evening, I suppose.”
“I’m afraid so. But you should enjoy the show at the Arena. As I recall you, you have a thing about the weirder variations of the female face and form divine. That cat woman on Morrowvia with whom you had a roll in the hay. That peculiar clone or whatever she was from whom the Survey Service had to rescue you when you were trying to get Bronson Star back to where she had been skyjacked from. There have been others, no doubt.”
“Mphm,” grunted Grimes through a cloud of acrid tobacco smoke. He refilled the brandy inhalers. “Mphm.”
“I will have one too,” said Brasidus.
Grimes stared at him. Had it not been for the man’s voice he would never have recognized the Archon. Yet the disguise was simple enough, just a spray-on dye applied to hair and beard, converting what had been light brown hair with the occasional silver thread to a not unnatural looking black.
The Archon drained his glass, then led the way out of the small dining room.
They made their way to what Grimes thought of as the tradesmen’s entrance.
Two men were waiting for them there, dressed, as was Grimes, in one-piece gray suits in a somewhat outmoded Terran style. Unlike Grimes, who liked a touch of garish color in his neckwear, they had on cravats that almost exactly matched the color and texture of the rest of their clothing. Their side pockets bulged, as did Grimes’s. Were they, he wondered, also pipe smokers? The Archon himself was dressed in the clothing appropriate to a lower middle-class citizen on a night out—knee-length blue tunic with touches of golden embroidery, rather elaborate sandals with, it seemed, more brass (not very well-polished) than leather. Maggie had on the modified Greek female dress that had been introduced from Earth—a short, white, rather flimsy tunic, sleeveless and with one of her shoulders left completely bare.
Brasidus introduced his two bodyguards—or so Grimes thought they must be; they looked the part—as Jason and Paulus. They could have been twins—although, he found later, they were not even related. They were tallish rather than tall, stoutish rather than stout and wore identical sullen expressions on their utterly undistinguished faces.
Jason brought a rather battered four-passenger hovercar round to the portico. It looked like something bought, cheaply, from Army Surplus. But there was nothing at all wrong with its engine and Grimes noticed various bulges in its exterior paneling mat that probably concealed weapons of some kind.
Jason was a good driver.
Soon the vehicle was whining through the narrow streets of the city which, mainly, were illumined by deliberately archaic gas flares, avoiding near collisions with contemptuous ease, finally gliding into the garish neon glare of the Street of the Haetaeri. Parking was found very close to th
e entrance of Aristotle’s Arena. The three men and the woman got out and walked the short distance to the ticket booth. Brasidus pulled a clinking coin purse from the pouch at his belt and paid admission for the party.
“It’s a good show, citizen,” said the ticket vendor, a woman who was disguised as a Japanese geisha but whose face, despite the thickly applied cosmetics, was more Caucasian than Asian. “You’re just in time to see the cat girls doing their thing.”
Maggie, who had been to this place before, led the way down a flight of stone stairs. At the bottom of these they emerged from dim lighting into what was almost complete darkness. An usherette dressed in what looked like an imitation of an Amazon guard’s uniform—but the tip of her short spear functioned as a torch—led them to their seats, which were four rows back from the circular, sand-covered arena. She sold them doughnut-shaped pneumatic cushions—the seating was on stone benches—which they had to inflate themselves. As they settled down in an approximation to comfort the show started.
There was music of some kind over the public address system. Grimes didn’t recognize the tune. Maggie whispered, “But you should, John. Apparently it’s a song that was popular on Earth—oh, centuries ago. Somebody must have done his homework. It’s called, ‘What’s new, Pussycat?’”
Brasidus muttered sourly, “Some Earth imports we could do without.”
A spotlight came on, illuminating the thing that emerged from the tunnel that gave entrance to the arena. It was . . . Surely not! thought Grimes. But it was. It was a giant mouse. A robot mouse, its movements almost lifelike. There were no real mice on New Sparta, of course, although immigrants from Earth knew about them and there were now plenty of illustrated books on Terran zoology. And cats, real cats, had been introduced by the Terran immigrants.
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