“You don’t know much about what goes on aboard your own ship,” Shirl told him.
Grimes laughed. “I’m only the captain. Nobody ever tells me anything.”
“Then we can be your spies, John. You’ve made it plain that we aren’t to be anything else.”
“I’ve told you why it’s quite impossible, as long as you’re on my books.”
“But it’s so silly,” complained the girls in unison.
“Silly or not, that’s the way it’s going to be.”
“Would you rather that we slept with Bill the Bull?”
William Bull was the third reaction drive engineer, the only male member of his department. He was referred to as “the bull among the cows.” It was a known fact that both the second and fourth were recipients of his favors. Privately Grimes thought of him as a sullen, over-sexed lout.
He said, “I’d advise you not to. Juanita has a hot temper and Calamity Cassie might put a hex on you. Well, since you are now my self-appointed spies, what else have you for me that you think that I don’t already know?”
“Tomoko . . . .”
“Ms. Suzuki to you. After all, she is your superior officer.”
“Only just,” said Shirl. “And only aboard this ship of yours. Well, she and Seiko are very friendly. They have long talks together, twittering and giggling away in Japanese. Anyhow, we think that it’s in Japanese.”
“It probably is,” Grimes said. “Tomoko must be pleased to have somebody with whom she can chat in her native language. It’s the one that was originally programmed into her—Seiko, I mean, although I suppose that you could say the same regarding Tomoko.”
“But Tomoko is not a robot,” objected Darleen.
“Isn’t she? Aren’t you? Or, come to that, me? We’re all of us programmed, from birth onward.”
“You are too deep for us, John. We are not accustomed to such philosophical thinking. On New Alice we led simple lives, at one with Nature . . . .”
And this was so, Grimes knew. He had watched Shirl and Darleen running with the mob of kangaroos by the Uluru Canal near Ayers Rock, heard them talking to the marsupials. He knew that aboard Sister Sue the two girls were now practically in charge of the ship’s hydroponic “farm,” that even the various edible, tank-grown plants flourished, under their care, as never before. They had green fingers, declared Melinda Clay who, as catering officer, was responsible for the continuing supply of fresh fruits, salads and other vegetables.
So Sister Sue eventually made her planetfall in the vicinity of Pleth, emerged from the warped continuum into normal space-time, said all the right things to the planet’s Aerospace Control, got all the right answers and, eventually, dropped through thick clouds, all the way from the stratosphere to the ground, to the spaceport. This, with facilities capable of handling no more than two ships at the one time, was shared by the Survey Service and commercial interests. Grimes’s berth was marked not by the usual flashing red beacons but by a radar transponder; it is said the visibility is bad for nine months of the local year on Pleth and nonexistent for the remaining three.
Grimes set his ship down gently, making, he told himself, a very good job of it in these conditions. He sat in the control room with Steerforth after the others had left, looking out through a viewport at . . . nothing. At least he knew which way to look; his radar, set on short range, showed him a blob of luminescence that probably indicated the port administration building.
He saw the gradually increasing yellow glare in the fog that came from the headlights of approaching ground vehicles. Ms. Clay, in her capacity as purser, would, he knew, have all the necessary ship’s papers ready in her office. Ms. Suzuki would receive the boarding officers in the after airlock. His presence almost certainly would not be required. Customs, Port Health and Immigration would be getting their free smokes and coffee and then applying their rubber stamps before leaving.
Steerforth said, “I’d better get down to my office, sir. I suppose that somebody will be wanting to arrange discharge.” He laughed. “I don’t suppose that the Sub-Base Commander will be inviting us across for drinks.”
That was indeed unlikely, thought Grimes. From his long experience he had learned that the smaller the base, the greater the sense of self-importance of the officer in charge. On a planet like Pleth the OIC would most likely be some passed-over commander, putting on the airs and graces of a fleet admiral, too high and mighty to share a noggin of gin with a mere tramp skipper and his mate.
“I shall be in my day cabin if anybody wants me, Mr. Steerforth,” he said. “Probably the agent will come aboard once the ship has been cleared inwards.”
Shortly after Grimes had settled down in his day cabin with a mug of hot, sweet coffee to hand, his pipe drawing well, he was called upon by Mr. Klith, of Klith, Klith & Associates. Mr. Klith was obviously a native, although apparently humanoid. What could be seen of his skin was pale green and scaly and his huge eyes were hidden by even huger dark goggles, worn as protection from the relatively glaring illumination inside the ship. Although he wore a conventional enough gray, one-piece business suit his large, webbed feet were bare.
He spoke perfect, rather too perfect Standard English.
“I am your agent on Pleth, Captain,” he announced. “Also I represent the Federation Survey Service, the consignees of your inward cargo.”
“Sit down, Mr. Klith,” said Grimes. “Can I offer you refreshment? Tea, coffee, something stronger? It is the middle of the morning your time, but I think that we can say that the sun is over the yardarm.”
“We rarely see our sun,” said Mr. Klith. “But what is a yardarm?”
“I must apologize,” said Grimes. “I used an expression that used to be common at sea, on Earth, during the days of sail. It was passed on to mechanically driven ships and then to spaceships. It means that it’s just about time for a drink before the midday meal.”
“Thank you for your invitation, Captain. Perhaps I might have some tea. To us it is a mild intoxicant.”
Grimes spoke briefly into the microphone of the intercom, turned to his guest. “What sort of tea would you prefer, Mr. Klith?”
“Indian tea is among our imports, Captain, but I understand that there are other varieties. I should wish to sample one of them.”
Grimes amplified his order to the pantry.
“And now, Captain, while we are waiting might we discuss business?” said the agent. “I am afraid that we cannot expect much cooperation from Commander Dravitt, who is in charge of the Sub-Base. May I quote his words? He said, ‘I need another load of bumf like I need a second arsehole. My stationery store is packed almost to bursting already.’ But, you will be relieved to learn, I am the agent on this world for the Survey Service, not for one of its relatively junior—in rank, that is—officers. I have received a Carlottigram, signed by an Admiral Damien—do you know him, by any chance?—urging me to expedite your discharge. Your cargo will be stored in a civilian warehouse.”
“As long as I’m not expected to pay for the storage,” said Grimes.
“You will not be, Captain.”
There was a tap at the door. Seiko came in, carrying a tray upon which were a teapot and a handleless cup. She set the tray down on the coffee table, poured the steaming fluid which almost matched Mr. Klith’s skin in color. The native watched the robomaid with admiration, then transferred his attention to the refreshment.
He said, with some little bewilderment, “But should there not be sugar? And milk? Or perhaps some slices of that fruit you call lemon?”
“This is the way that we Japanese drink our tea, Klith-san,” said Seiko.
“Indeed? But would not the ingestion of hot fluids tend to corrode your intricate and beautiful machinery?”
Grimes said hastily, “Seiko neither eats nor drinks. But she tends to identify with her manufacturers.” Then, to the robot, “Thank you, Seiko. That will do.”
“Thank you, Captain-san.”
The robomaid
withdrew.
“Your personal servant, Captain?” asked Mr. Klith. “A robot such as that must have been very, very expensive. All that we have on this world are clumsy things that are neither ornamental nor even very useful. But, of course, you are a rich shipowner and can afford the very best.”
“Mphm,” grunted Grimes. “As a matter of fact Seiko is a gift to me from my father . . . .”
“Then he must be a very rich man. Is he, too, in shipping?”
“No, he’s a writer . . . .”
“Then he must be famous. Terran books are very popular here on Slith, both in translation and among those who, like myself, can read the various Terran languages. What name does he write under?”
Grimes told him.
“I am sorry. I have never heard of him. But he still must be successful and rich.”
“Moderately successful and not really rich. As a matter of fact he bought Seiko for himself, to program as his secretary. That way he could claim her purchase price as a legitimate income tax deduction. Then my mother thought that she would make an ideal robomaid after secretarial skills somehow failed to develop, but she was still my father’s pet. And then, after a family row, I got her . . . .”
“What complicated lives you Terrans lead. That is what makes your literature so fascinating. . . . This is excellent tea, by the way, Captain. I must arrange to import it from Earth in large quantities . . .”
Grimes refilled his cup for him.
“And now, Captain, let us discuss business. My young Mr. Slith is now with your chief officer discussing discharge of your inward cargo. This should commence shortly after noon, our time. Our stowbots may not be as good looking as your robomaid but they are fast working, especially when no great care is required. . . .”
“Mr. Steerforth will make careful note of the marks and numbers of any packages damaged and I shall, of course, refuse to pay any claims for damaged cargo.”
“As you please, Captain. The Survey Service will just write off such claims. After all, it is by their insistence that your discharge will be an exceptionally speedy one. By tomorrow night you should have an empty ship. Loading will commence almost at once. You know, of course, that you will be carrying a cargo of paradise fruit to New Otago. . . .”
“Any need for refrigeration or special ventilation?”
“No. It is canned.”
“Then I hope that some care is exercised in its loading. I don’t want damaged crates and sticky juice dribbling all over my cargo decks.”
“Due care will be exercised, Captain. Paradise fruit is our main export and we do not wish to antagonize our customers.” He finished his tea and got to his feet. “Thank you for allowing me to sample this truly excellent brew.”
“Aren’t you staying for lunch?” asked Grimes, hoping that the answer would be negative. A little of Mr. Slith went a long way. Apart from anything else he exuded an odor of not very fresh fish. (And what do I smell like to him? wondered Grimes, making allowances.)
“No thank you, Captain. I must confess that I do not find Terran foods very palatable—apart from your tea, that is. But does that possess any nutritional value? And now I must be on my way. Business awaits me in my office.”
“Before you go,” asked Grimes, “can you tell me if there are any recreational facilities in Port Pleth? I always allow my people shore leave whenever possible.”
“Alas, no. Had you come a few days earlier you could have witnessed our annual mud festival, an event in which I am trying to interest the operators of tourist liners, such as Trans-Galactic Clippers, so far without success. Too, it is unsafe for beings not blessed with our eyes, sensitive as they are to infrared radiation, to wander through the town. A few months ago—as you reckon time— the second officer of a Dog Star Line vessel fell into the Murgh River and was drowned . . . .”
So, thought Grimes, he would have to announce that there was to be no shore leave. He did not think that anybody would object very strongly.
Chapter 12
But there was, after all, shore leave of a sort.
Just as Grimes was about to go down to the wardroom for his luncheon he had another caller, this one human, an ensign from the Sub-Base. This not-so-young (for his lowly rank he seemed quite elderly) gentleman handed Grimes a large, rather condescendingly but more or less correctly addressed envelope. Commander John Grimes, FSS (Rtd.), Master dss Sister Sue. (Grimes had held the rank of commander at the time of the Discovery mutiny but he had not been retired; he had resigned his commission in some haste.)
Inside the envelope was a stiff sheet of official Survey Service stationery. On it was typed, “Commander David Dravitt, Federation Survey Service, Officer-in-Charge Sub-Base Pleth and his officers request the pleasure of the company of Commander John Grimes, Master dss Sister Sue, and his officers to dinner this evening, 1800 for 1930. Your prompt reply by bearer will be appreciated.”
So far as he could remember Grimes had never been shipmates with Dravitt during his own days in the Service. He had never met, nor even heard of Dravitt. But, all too probably, Dravitt would have heard of him.
He asked, “Is there any limit to the number of guests, Mr. . . . Mr. . . . ?”
“Sullivan, sir. No, there is no limit. We enjoy commodious facilities. The Sub-Base was once much more important than it is now.”
“Mphm. Can you handle fourteen, including myself?”
“Easily, sir. Will that be your entire complement?”
“No. Executive and engineer officers of the watch will remain on board. Will you be arranging transport?”
“It is only a short stroll to the Sub-Base officers’ quarters, sir.”
“In a thick fog, Mr. Sullivan?”
“We can lay on a ground car for yourself and your senior officers, sir. Native guides will be supplied for the others. The natives, as you may know, have eyes adapted to local conditions.”
“Very well. You will call for us then at . . .”
“Shortly after 1730, sir.”
“Thank you. Would you care to stay for lunch?”
Sullivan was obviously tempted but he said, “No thank you, sir. Commander Dravitt would like your reply as soon as possible so that the necessary arrangements may be made.”
She, Paymaster Lieutenant Commander Selena Shaw, extricated herself from the tangle of bed sheets and limbs (half of these latter belonging to herself) and padded to the well-stocked bar set against one wall of her bedroom. Grimes watched the tall, naked blonde appreciatively. She returned to the bed bearing two condensation-bedewed glasses of sparkling wine.
“What,” asked Grimes, “is a girl like you doing in a place like this? A highly competent officer attached to Sub-Base Pleth, the last resting place of all the Survey Service incompetents? Well, some of them, anyhow.”
She laughed, her teeth very white in her tanned face. (She was one of the few officers of the Sub-Base who made regular use of the solarium; artificial sunlight was better than none at all.)
She said, without false modesty, “There has to be one competent officer, even in a sub-base like this. And I just happen to be it. Or her.”
Grimes sipped his chilled wine. “And what am I,” he continued rhetorically, “doing in a place like this? First of all, I never thought that a high and mighty sub-base commander would condescend to entertain a mere tramp skipper. Secondly, I was expecting a rather boring evening. I never dreamed that it would finish up like this.”
She said, “Actually the invitation was Droopy Delia’s idea. You’ve met her now, talked with her, so your opinion of her probably coincides with mine. A typical wife for a typical passed-over commander, like Davy Dravy, swept with him under the carpet to a dump like Pleth. Social ambitions that will never now be realized. A plumpish blonde—and now she’s rather more than plump—getting spliced to an ambitious young lieutenant and seeing herself, after not too many years, as an admiral’s wife. An admiral’s wife she’ll never be—but she kids herself that she’s running this s
ub-base. Shortly after you’d set down she came barging into my office. My office, mind you. Davy Dravy was there—well, after all he is the sub-base commander—to discuss various matters and she started browsing through the papers on my desk. ‘David,’ she squeaked, ‘have you seen who’s master of this tramp, this Sister Sue?’ He grumbled back, ‘What is it to me what star tramp skippers call themselves?’ She said, ‘It’s Grimes. John Grimes. The Grimes.’ Davy Dravy was less than impressed. ‘So bloody what?’ he snarled. ‘He was emptied out of the Service, wasn’t he? And not before time.’ She said, ‘Yes. He was emptied out of the Service—or, according to some, he resigned before he could be emptied out. And now he’s a shipowner. And he’s been a planetary governor. At least he hasn’t finished up with a deadend appointment, frozen in rank, like some people.’ Davy mumbled something about this being just your bloody luck. Droopy Delia said that she wished this famous luck would rub off on to some people she knew. And so it was decided to invite you to dinner. Or she decided to invite you to dinner. And then I took pity on you—or, as it’s turned out, it was enlightened self-interest. Davy and Delia just aren’t the Universe’s best hosts. I threw in my two bits’ worth. ‘Why not,’ I asked her, not him, ‘issue a general wardroom invitation to the captain and officers. Our own officers, and the few civilian spouses, will enjoy having somebody fresh to talk with . . . .’”
“To talk with,” said Grimes. “And . . . .”
“Yes. As you say, and as we’ve been doing, and . . . Apart from ourselves, I think that there has been rather more than just talking. But I don’t think that Tony Cavallo and Billy Brown, our two prize wolves, got any place with those two cadets of yours. Odd looking wenches, somehow, but very attractive. And, despite their names, I don’t think that their ancestors were Irish. I may be wrong, but I think that they had eyes only for you. And me, when I was making my invitation rather obvious. If looks could have killed . . . .”
Ride the Star Winds Page 47