“Well, it should have been,” admitted Aristotle. “But all of my regular customers know of the arrangement.”
“We are not regular customers,” said Brasidus.
“But that, sir, does not entitle your friends to brandish and discharge firearms in my auditorium.” He raised and turned his head. “Come in, Sergeant, come in! I shall be obliged if you will place these persons under arrest. No, not Commodore Grimes and Commander Lazenby, they are guests of the Archon. But the other three. Charge them with discharging firearms, illegally held firearms at that, in a public place.”
“If you would please tell me who is which . . .” said the Sergeant tiredly.
He looked at Grimes. “Oh, I recognize you, sir. Your photograph was in the Daily Democrat. But which of the ladies am I supposed to take in?”
He stood there in his military-style uniform (but black instead of brown leather, stainless steel instead of brass), removing his plumed helmet so that he could scratch his head. The two constables, reluctant to enter the crowded office, remained outside the now open door.
“Just the men, Sergeant,” Aristotle told him impatiently. “Just the men.”
“All right.” The Sergeant grabbed Brasidus by the arm that was not held by an Amazon usherette. “Come on, you. Come quietly, or else.”
“But that is the Archon,” objected Paulus in a shocked voice. He tried to break away from restraint so that he could come to his master’s aid. “Take your paws off the Archon!”
“And I’m Zeus masquerading as a mere mortal!” The Sergeant pulled Brasidus towards the door. “Come on!”
“He is the Archon,” stated Grimes.
“Come, come, sir. This lout is nothing like Brasidus. I did duty in the Palace Guard before the Lady Ellena had us replaced by her Amazon Corps. I’ve a good memory for details—have to in my job. His hair and beard are light brown, just starting to go gray. Besides—” he laughed—“Ellena would never allow him to come to a dive like this.”
“My establishment is not a dive!” expostulated Aristotle indignantly.
“Isn’t it? Then what’s it doing on this street?” He called to the constables. “Come in, you two, and grab the other two lawbreakers.”
“There’ll be some room for us after you get out,” muttered one of the men.
The Sergeant twisted Brasidus’ right arm behind his back. It must have been painful.
“Take your hands off me!” growled Brasidus. “Take your hands off me, or I’ll have you posted to the most dismal village on all of New Sparta, Sergeant Priam. I am the Archon.”
Priam laughed. “So you think you can fool me by saying my name? Every petty crook in the city knows it.”
“He is the Archon,” said Grimes.
“He is the Archon,” stated Maggie.
“He could just be,” said Fenella. “There are techniques of disguise, you know. I’ve used them myself.”
“Call the Palace,” Brasidus ordered Aristotle. “The Lady Ellena will identify me.”
The showman pressed buttons at the base of the videophone on his desk. Only he could see the little screen but all of them could hear the conversation.
“May I speak to the Lady Ellena, please?”
“Who is that?” demanded an almost masculine female voice, probably that of the duty officer of the Amazon Guard.
“Aristotle, of Aristotle’s Arena.”
“What business would you have with the Lady Ellena?”
“None of yours, woman. I want to speak to her, is all.”
“Well, you can’t.”
“It is my right as a citizen.”
“You still can’t. She’s out.”
“She’s still at her meeting,” said Brasidus.
“What meeting?” demanded the Sergeant.
“Of the Women’s Branch of the New Hellas Association.”
“You seem to know a lot about her movements,” muttered the police officer. He looked as though he were beginning to wonder what sort of mess he had been dragged into. If this scruffy helot were indeed the Archon . . . But surely (so Grimes read his changing expressions) that was not possible. “Get the New Hellas bitches on the phone,” he ordered Aristotle. “Get the number of their meeting hall from the read-out.”
Aristotle obliged.
Then, “May I talk with the Lady Ellena, please?”
“She is addressing the meeting still,” came the reply in a vinegary female voice.
“This is important.”
“Who are you?”
Before he could answer the Sergeant had pushed his way round to the showman’s side of the desk.
“This is Sergeant Priam of the Vice Squad. This is official police business. Bring the Lady Ellena to the telephone at once.”
“What for?”
“For the identification of a body.”
There was a little scream from the New Hellas lady.
“Bring him round here,” ordered the Sergeant, “so that he can look into the video pick-up. And then we shall soon know one way or the other.”
Two of the Amazon usherettes obliged.
There was some delay, and then Grimes heard Ellena’s voice.
“Is this the body that I’m supposed to identify? But, firstly, he’s alive . . .”
“I didn’t say a dead body, Lady.”
“And secondly, I wouldn’t know him from a bar of soap.”
“It’s me,” said Brasidus.
“And who’s ‘me’? I most certainly don’t know you, my man, and I most certainly do not wish to know you.”
But she did not terminate the conversation.
“Have you any alcohol?” Brasidus asked Aristotle.
“Do you expect me to give you a free drink after all the trouble you have caused?”
“Not for drinking. And, in any case, I will pay you for what I use. Some alcohol, please, and some tissues . . .”
Grudgingly the showman produced a bottle of gin from a drawer and, from another, a box of tissues. He demanded—and received—a sum far in excess of the retail price of these articles. Everybody watched as the Archon applied the gin-soaked tissue to his beard which, after a few applications, returned to its normal color.
“So,” said the Lady Ellena, “it is you. I did recognize the voice, of course. But where are you calling from? A police station? And why do you wish me to identify you?”
“I’m at Aristotle’s Arena . . . .”
“Oh. Another of your incognito slumming expeditions. And you got yourself into trouble. Really, my dear, you carry the concept of democracy too far. Much too far. For a man of your standing to frequent such a haunt of iniquity . . . I suggest that you order the Sergeant to furnish you with transport back to the Palace. At once.”
“You had better not come with me,” said Brasidus as Grimes and Maggie made to follow him and his police escort from the office. “The Lady Ellena regards spacemen as a bad influence. And as for the rest of you . . .” The note of command was strong in his voice. “As for the rest of you, I shall be greatly obliged if no word of tonight’s adventure gets out. I am requesting, not ordering—but, even so, I could have your Arena closed, Aristotle, and your performers deported, just as you, Fenella Pruin, could also be deported, after a spell in one of our jails. I am sorry, John and Maggie, that we shall not be able to enjoy the rest of the evening together, but there will be other times. Jason will run you back to the Palace at your convenience.
“A good night to you all.”
He was gone, accompanied by the deferential policemen.
“Could we have our pistols back?” asked Paulus.
“Help yourself,” said Aristotle.
“Another good story that I am not allowed to use,” grumbled Fenella Pruin. “At least, not on this world. But the evening need not be a total disaster.” She turned to Grimes. “Perhaps an interview, John? I am staying at the New Sparta Sheraton . . . .”
“And we,” said Shirl and Darleen, “are staying at the Hippolyte Hotel.”
<
br /> “And I,” said Maggie sweetly, “saw him first. Come along, John. We’ll find a place for a quiet drink or two before we return to the Palace.”
“I’m supposed to be running you back,” said Jason sullenly.
“So you are. Come with us, then. But you will sit at a separate table. Don’t look so worried. We’ll pay for your drinks.”
Chapter 9
They had their drinks in an establishment where the almost naked waitresses made it plain that they were willing to oblige in more ways than the serving of drinks and who regarded the few female customers with open hostility. After having had a glass of ouzo spilled in her lap Maggie decided that it was time to leave. Jason, who had been getting on well with the hostess who had joined him at his table, sharing the large bottle of retsina that had been purchased at Grimes’s expense, got to his feet reluctantly. His companion glared at him when he corked the wine bottle and took it with him.
“Waste not, want not, Commodore,” he said.
“Too right,” agreed Grimes.
“I thought that this wine was a present,” complained the overly plump blonde.
“It is,” said Jason. “To me.”
They made their way to the parked hovercar, got in. The drive back to the palace was uneventful. They entered the building, as they had left it, by a back door. Amazon guards, or guards of any kind, were conspicuous by their absence. Security seemed to be non-existent. Grimes said as much.
Jason laughed. “If you’d tried to get in this way without me along with you there’d have been a few surprises. Unpleasant ones.”
“Such as?” asked Grimes.
“That’d be telling, Commodore. Just take my word for it.”
“You’re not a native, are you?” asked Grimes, who had detected more than a trace of American accent.
“No sir. No way. Before I came here I was an operative with Panplanet Security, home office Chicago. Paulus and I brought all the tricks of our trade with us. And now good night to you, Commodore Grimes and Commander Lazenby. I take it that you know the way back to your quarters.”
Maggie assured him that they did.
They went to Grimes’s suite.
They sat down and talked, discussing the events of the evening, comparing notes.
Maggie asked, “However did you get to know those two New Alice wenches, or, come to that, Fenella Pruin?”
“It’s a long, sad story,” he said. “At the finish of it I had all three of them as passengers aboard Little Sister—the deep space pinnace of which I was owner-master before I bought Sister Sue.”
“It must have been an interesting voyage.”
“Too interesting at times. But there were . . . compensations.”
“I’m sure. Knowing you.” She sipped from the drink that he had poured her. “It’s a pity that we have no power to recruit the Pruin woman. She impresses me as being a really skillful investigator.”
“Only when there’s a story with sex involved, the only kind of story that Star Scandal prints.”
“There are other stories, you know, equally interesting, and other media with good money to pay for them. Perhaps if I could get her interested . . . Or if you could. You know her better than I do. Come to that, Shirl and Darleen could do some work for us . . . .”
“Shirl and Darleen? Oh, they’d make quite good bodyguards. They’re at their best in a rough and tumble. But as intelligence agents? Hardly.”
“As intelligence agents,” she said firmly. “Not very high grade ones, but useful. They told you where they were staying.”
“The Hippolyte Hotel. But what’s that got to do with it?”
“The Hippolyte Hotel is owned by a company made up of members of the New Hellas Association, mainly well-to-do female members. The Lady Ellena is a major shareholder. The name of the place is her choice. As you must have already gathered she has a thing about Amazons. In case you don’t already know, Hippolyte was Queen of the Amazons.”
“I’m not altogether ignorant of Terran history and mythology.”
“All right, all right. But the Hippolyte is much frequented by NHA people. Too, I found out that the Hippolyte offered special rates to the stars now appearing at Aristotle’s Arena.”
“What’s so sinister about that?”
“I . . . don’t know. But there have been rumors. All those performers are alleged to be specialists in various offplanet martial arts. As far as your girlfriends Shirl and Darleen are concerned it’s more than a mere allegation. Could Ellena be thinking of recruiting instructors in exotic weaponry and techniques for her Amazon Guards?”
“Terrible as an army with boomerangs,” misquoted Grimes.
“Very funny. But our own Survey Service Marine Corps Commandos are trained to inflict grievous bodily harm with a wide variety of what many would consider to be archaic weapons.”
“Mphm.”
“Officially,” she said, “you’re in charge of this Intelligence Branch operation, whether you like it or not. Not only do you rank me, but you’ve had more experience in Intelligence work.”
“But I didn’t have the intelligence to realize it.”
“You do now. Anyhow, although I’m officially subordinate to you, I can make suggestions, recommendations. I recommend that you exercise your influence on Shirl and Darleen—they seem to like you, the Odd Gods of the Galaxy alone know why!—and persuade them to accept the Lady Ellena’s offer. If she makes it, that is. And if she does, and they do, then perhaps your other girlfriend might stay on here to do a story on their experiences instead of following the rest of the troupe across the Galaxy . . . .”
“This used to be an all-male planet,” said Grimes. “But now . . . First you, then Fenella, then Shirl and Darleen. It never rains but it pours.”
“You’re not complaining, are you?” she asked.
“Certainly not about you,” he told her gallantly.
They finished their drinks and extinguished their smokes and went to bed, the bed that Maggie would have to leave to return to her own before the domestic staff was up and about.
Chapter 10
The next morning Grimes was awakened from his second sleep—he had drifted off again after Maggie had left him—by one of the very plain serving maids who brought him a jug of thick, sweet coffee and informed him that breakfast would be served, in the small dining room, in an hour’s time. He had some coffee (he would have preferred tea) and then did all the things that he had to do and attired himself in a plain, black shirt and a kilt in the Astronaut’s Guild tartan—black, gold and silver—long, black socks and highly polished, gold-buckled, black shoes. He went out into the passageway and rapped on the door to Maggie’s suite.
She called, “Who is it?”
“Me.”
“Come in, come in.”
He was amused to find that she was attired as he was, although her kilt was shorter and lighter than his and the tartan was the green, blue, brown and gold of the Institute of Life Sciences.
“All we need,” he said, “is a piper to precede us into the Archon’s presence. I wonder if he’ll give us haggis for breakfast.”
She laughed. “Knowing you, you’ll be wishing that he would. You’ll be pining even for Scottish oatmeal. The Lady Ellena’s ideas as to what constitutes a meal to start the day do not coincide with yours.”
They most certainly did not. Grimes maintained that God had created pigs and hens only so that eggs and bacon could make a regular appearance on the breakfast tables of civilized people. He regarded the little, sweet buns with barely concealed distaste and did no more than sip at the syrupy, sweet coffee.
The Archon was in a subdued mood. The Lady Ellena looked over the sparsely laden table at her husband’s guests with obviously spurious sweetness.
“Do have another roll, Commodore. You do not seem to have much of an appetite this morning. Perhaps your party last night was rather too good.”
Grimes took another roll. There was nothing else for him to eat.
“The Archon tells me,” she went on, almost as though Brasidus were not among those present, “that you know two of the performers at Aristotle’s Arena. Those rather odd girls called Shirl and Darleen. The boomerang throwers.”
“Yes,” admitted Grimes. “We are old acquaintances.”
Maggie was trying hard not to laugh.
“You have no doubt already noticed,” went on Ellena, “that I have formed a Corps of Amazons. I considered this to be of great importance on a planet such as this which, until recently, had never known women. Women, I decided, must be shown to be able to compete with men in every field, including the military arts and sciences.”
“Mphm,” grunted Grimes, pulling his pipe and tobacco pouch out from his sporran.
“Would you mind refraining, Commodore? I am allergic to tobacco smoke. Besides, the ancient Hellenes never indulged in tobacco.”
Only because they never had the chance to do so, thought Grimes as he put his pipe and pouch away.
“I am interested,” she said, “in recruiting instructors from all over the Galaxy. Brasidus has told me that Shirl and Darleen—what peculiar names—are proficient in boxing techniques, especially a sort of foot boxing, and in the use of throwing weapons. Boomerangs.”
“The ones that they demonstrated last night,” said Grimes, “were only play boomerangs.”
“I know, Commodore, I know. After all I, like you, am an Australian. Or, in my own case, was. I am now a citizen of New Sparta. But I have no doubt that the young . . . ladies can use hunting boomerangs, killing boomerangs, with effect.”
“I’ve seen them do it,” said Grimes.
“You have? You must tell me all about it some time. Meanwhile, I shall be greatly obliged if you will act on my behalf and try to persuade the young ladies to enter my service as instructors.”
“Rank and pay?” asked Grimes, always sensitive to such matters.
“I was thinking of making them sergeants,” said Ellena.
“No way,” said Grimes. “There will have to be much more inducement. As theatrical artistes they are well-paid.” (Were they?) “They are members of a glamorous profession. I would suggest commissioned rank, lieutenancies at least, with pay to match and specialists’ allowances in addition.”
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