The Gateway to Never

by A Bertram Chandler

  And that was all. There are more secrets than commercial ones.

  XXVI

  Before they could all sit down to their evening meal there was the conducted tour of the bottling plant—all very boring unless one happened to be an engineer. Larwood pointed out with pride the way in which the machinery was mounted on floating platforms so that it would suffer no damage, and even go on functioning, in the event of an earth tremor. There were free samplings of the mineral-rich water, from which Grimes and Williams abstained. What had happened during their first night on Eblis had put them off the stuff.

  Grimes, more out of spite than from any desire to know, asked, "And what's behind that door, Mr. Larwood?"

  "Just the office, Commodore Grimes. Nothing of any interest whatsoever."

  "I'd rather like to see it, Mr. Larwood. As I spend most of my days behind an office desk I might get some ideas as to how to make myself more comfortable. If your office is like the plant it'll be up to the minute."

  "I'm sorry, Commodore. Only Captain Clavering has the keys. In any case, there's nothing at all to see."

  "Some other day, perhaps?" said Grimes vaguely.

  "Yes, Commodore. Some other day."

  And then they were all sitting down at the tables in the mess hall, and the devils were bringing in steaming platters of food and bottles of cold wine, and everybody was tucking in to the bouillabaisse made from various denizens of the Bitter Sea as though none of them had eaten for at least a week. Even Williams enjoyed it, leaving nothing in his bowl but empty shells and cracked claws. Denise Dalgety, who was at the next table, was eating with a very good appetite, but Larwood was off his feed.

  It was bedtime then, and the tourists retired to the dormitory. The air mattresses were very comfortable, and even the chorus of snores from all around him could not keep the Commodore awake. He was vaguely conscious of a slight earth tremor just before he dropped off, but it did not worry him.

  * * *

  Music over the public address system woke the tourists. Most of them went out for a last swim in the Bitter Sea, but Grimes and Williams did not. Apart from anything else there was privacy for conversation in the shower room.

  "I wonder just who SB three is," said Grimes. "That voice sounded familiar. I've heard it before, but a very long time ago. It made quite an impression on me."

  "One o' the Australoid accents, Skipper," said Williams.

  "Pots and kettles, Commander. Pots and kettles. But it hadn't got that peculiar Rim Worlds twang, like yours."

  "Austral?" suggested Williams doubtfully.

  "Mphm. Yes. Could be. And those initials, SB, ring some kind of bell too. IC is obviously Ian Clavering, and RL is Ron Larwood. Do we know anybody who has SB for initials?"

  "I don't, Skipper, 'cept for a sheila back on Lorn called Susan Bartram. It couldn't have been her."

  "How do you know? In this sort of business all sorts of odd people may be implicated."

  "It wasn't a woman's voice," began Williams, then realized that Grimes was not entirely serious.

  "Yes, as you say, Commander, it was a man's voice. But whose?"

  "There're one helluva lot o' men in this Galaxy—an' you, in your lifetime, have met at least your fair share of 'em."

  "Too right."

  And then the first of the bathers came in from the Bitter Sea, and the attendant devils got busy with detergent and long-handled brushes, and there was no more opportunity for conversation.

  * * *

  After a good breakfast the tourists got back into the coaches. The first pallor of dawn was showing in the eastern sky, with the black plumed Great Smokies in silhouette against the yellow luminosity, when the vehicles lifted. To the south'ard the low clouds reflected the glare from the Erebus Alps and the Devil's Torches. The wind had yet to rise, although the Bitter Sea was well enough in the lee of Satan's Barrier to be shielded from the full fury of the westerlies.

  Larwood and the other two pilots wasted no time. Was he in a hurry, wondered Grimes, because he wanted to report that odd deep space radio call to Clavering, or because he wanted to get back to Inferno Valley while the dawn lull lasted? But he must have called Clavering again last night, after he had got rid of Denise Dalgety. And Clavering was to lift off at sunset in Sally Ann on his charter voyage, so Larwood must have made sure of getting in touch with him as soon as possible.

  The sun came up—and there, ahead, was the dark gash in the ochre desert that was Inferno Valley. From its eastern end white steam, from the Devil's Stewpot, was lazily rising, curling in wreaths about the Devil's Phallus. One thing about this world, thought Grimes, there's no need to go the trouble and expense of putting up wind socks.

  Larwood started to lose altitude as the coaches approached the western end of the valley, dropped below the lips of the canyon as soon as possible, skimmed over the placid waters of the Styx at reduced speed, almost brushing the upper branches of the ghost gums along its banks.

  He grounded just in front of the main entrance to the Lucifer Arms, said into his public address microphone, "Well, that's all, folks. Thank you for your company and cooperation."

  Williams looked at the back of Denise Dalgety's blonde head and whispered,

  "She and the Mate

  "Would cooperate

  "Upon the office table."

  "There's probably a settee in there," said Grimes, taking a malicious pleasure in seeing the girl's ears redden.

  "All ashore what's going ashore!" said Larwood with spurious heartiness. "This is the end of the penny section!"

  Clavering, Grimes noticed, was waiting just inside the hotel entrance. He looked impatient. Grimes could not see Larwood's face, but the back of his neck looked impatient too. Slowly, clumsily, the tourists extricated themselves from the coach. Grimes and Williams politely held back to let Denise Dalgety out first. She said sweetly, "After you, Commodore," but Larwood seemed anxious to be rid of her.

  At last they were all out, standing in gossiping groups on the firm red sand. Larwood, his responsibilities at an end, went straight to Clavering. The two men exchanged a few brief words and then went into the hotel, brushing past Billinghurst, who was on his way out. Denise Dalgety walked swiftly towards the fat Customs chief to make her report.

  "Nobody loves us, Commander," said Grimes sadly.

  "Is it surprising, Skipper?" countered Williams.

  XXVII

  Grimes managed to have a few words in private with Clavering before his departure for Ultimo. It was natural enough that he should wish to have a look over Sally Ann, and that vessel's Master could not very well refuse his request.

  When they were in the old liner's control room Grimes said seriously, "I'm warning you, Captain."

  "What about, Commodore?" Clavering's voice was altogether too innocent.

  "You know."

  "All right. So I know. So what?"

  "Try to get out of this mess that you've gotten into, man. Tell whoever's behind the racket that he'll have to find some other way of bringing the stuff in. The risk, for you, just isn't worth it. You've built up a very nice little business here—a not so little business, rather. How long will it last if the Confederacy gets really hostile?"

  Clavering said stiffly, "For your information I am pulling out." His face worked strangely. "Also for your information—I knew Inga Telfer. I . . . I knew her well. I don't need to tell you, Commodore Grimes, that the owner and manager of a holiday resort has even better opportunities than a passenger ship officer. Did you see any of Inga's work? There's a lot of Eblis in it; she was always saying that this planet is a painter's paradise. Eblis and dreamy weed, and all splashed down on canvas. When I heard of her death I was . . . shocked. I want nothing more to do with the traffic that killed her. Satisfied?"

  "Mphm. What about the consignment that's on the way?"

  "What consignment?" countered Clavering.

  "I just assumed that there would be one," said Grimes. He could not say more for fear of blowing D
enise Dalgety's cover.

  "Assume all you like," said Clavering.

  And then his Chief Officer—not Larwood, who would be staying behind to run things in his captain's absence—came in to report that he had completed the pre-lift-off inspection.

  "Thank you, Mr. Tilden," said Clavering. "And now, if you'll excuse me, Commodore, I have to start thinking about getting this old lady upstairs. Mr. Tilden will show you to the after airlock."

  "This way, sir," said the Mate.

  "A pleasant voyage, Captain," said Grimes.

  "Thank you. Enjoy your stay on Eblis, Commodore."

  "I'll do just that," promised Grimes.

  * * *

  Not so very long later he stood with Billinghurst and Williams, a little apart from Macedon's passengers, and watched Sally Ann lifting off. The big ship climbed slowly and, it seemed, laboriously—although this impression may have been due to the way in which the irregular hammering of her inertial drive was echoed back from the red basalt cliffs of the canyon walls. Slowly she climbed, clambering up towards the strip of darkling yellow sky far overhead, her far from inconsiderable bulk dwarfed by the towering monolith of the Devil's Phallus. Slowly she climbed at first, then faster and faster, hurrying to get clear of the atmosphere during the sunset lull.

  Abruptly Billinghurst asked, "Did you find anything out, Commodore?"

  "Eh? What?"

  "I asked," repeated the fat man patiently, "if you found anything out?"

  "I don't wear ear clips," said Grimes.

  "Ha, ha. Very funny. But, talking of electronic gadgetry, it's a bloody pity you haven't got your Carlotti receiver repaired yet."

  "Why?"

  "Do I have to spell it out? Because then we could monitor all incoming and outgoing signals."

  "Not necessarily," Grimes told him. "This mysterious SB Three could be sending on a very tight beam, aimed directly at the bottling plant. I didn't get a look at the transceiver there myself, but probably it's designed for tight beam transmission."

  "Not that it makes any difference," said Billinghurst, "since you can't do anything about it, anyhow."

  I've got Clavering's word that he's pulling out, thought Grimes. For what it's worth. . . . How many times have men engaged in illegal activities said, "Just one more time?" Too many. Far too many. And was Clavering already using his ship's Carlotti equipment to establish communication with SB Three? All too likely.

  "I don't suppose anything will happen until Clavering gets back," said Billinghurst.

  "If then," said Grimes.

  "Are you helping me or not, Commodore?"

  "I was merely expressing an opinion. For your information, Mr. Billinghurst, as you should have gathered from the conversation your Miss Dalgety recorded, everybody on this planet knows who you are and what you're here for, and they suspect that my story about the projected naval base is just a blind. The way in which Ditmar's been held up at Port Last stinks to high heaven. It's obvious, as Larwood said, that the heat's on."

  "When the heat is on, Commodore, people get panicky and make silly mistakes."

  "Some people do, but not all."

  "These ones will," said Billinghurst flatly, and waddled off.

  "The old bastard really loves you, Skipper," commented Williams.

  "Doesn't he? Damn it all, Commander, I rather envy him. To be in a job where there's no question of rights or wrongs or personal freedoms, just what's legal and what's illegal. . . ."

  "Remember Pleshoff and Fellini and Inga Telfer."

  "Pleshoff's a young idiot, and unlucky to boot. Fellini and the girl were killed by H.E., not by dreamy weed. Too, we're just assuming that the charge in the drop container was detonated deliberately. Don't forget that it was under fire from laser and projectile weapons."

  "If you were takin' a more active part, Skipper, you'd be far happier. You wouldn't be carryin' on as if yer name was Hamlet, not Grimes."

  "Perhaps you're right. If only we had the Malemute in running order. . . ."

  "But we haven't. But we still have the work boat, and that transponder is still stuck to Captain Clavering's pet atmosphere flier."

  "For all the good it is," said Grimes.

  XXVIII

  It seemed safe to assume that nothing would happen until Clavering's return from Ultimo, if then. Billinghurst condescended to explain to Grimes the part that the Commodore would have to play should the mysterious SB Three land on Eblis to discharge a consignment of dreamy weed.

  "We have to bear in mind," he said, "that we're surrounded by legal complications. We can't touch Clavering—or, if we do, his legal eagles are going to raise a scream that'll be heard from here to the Magellanic Clouds. Given time, no doubt, we could nail something on him. But what? No matter. SB Three, however, is most definitely a lawbreaker. He—or she, or it, for all I know—is landing on one of the Rim Worlds without going through the formalities of obtaining an Inward Clearance. He and his ship are liable to arrest. I have the legal power to make such an arrest, of course—but usually, in such cases, the Navy is called upon to seize on behalf of the Customs Department. You, even with the small handful of Rim Malemute's officers at your disposal, will be able to put a prize crew aboard the seized vessel and take her to Port Last."

  "I suppose so," admitted Grimes. "I'd be happier if I had the Malemute at my disposal as well as her officers, though. I had the little bitch fitted with a good set of teeth, and now she won't be able to show them, let alone use them."

  "This isn't a naval action, Commodore. This is merely the seizure of a smuggler."

  "Mphm. Some quite respectable merchant vessels are armed like young cruisers. I shouldn't be at all surprised if SB Three, if he shows up, packs an even heavier wallop."

  "When SB Three shows up," said Billinghurst firmly, "we will arrest him."

  "And meanwhile?"

  "My people will continue to cultivate the friendships they have made. So far the only one to have got results is Miss Dalgety. As you know. It isn't up to me to give you orders, Commodore, but perhaps if you continued making your sightseeing tours you might learn something."

  "Thank you," said Grimes, with mock humility.

  So he saw the Valley of the Winds and listened to the Devil's Organ—which, he said, reminded him of the lowing of a sick cow. He visited the Burning Pits, and he and Williams amused themselves by imagining Billinghurst being reduced to a puddle of grease at the bottom of the Wishing Well, into which they threw coins to watch them become blobs of molten silver in seconds. They were flown over the Fire Forests on a day when conditions were suitable, and applauded with the rest of the tourists when Larwood solemnly named a new volcano Mount Denise, swooping low to drop a bottle of champagne (he always carried a few on this trip for such occasions) into the bubbling crater.

  They dined and danced in the Lucifer Arms, they perspired in the Devil's Stewpot and even, eventually, got into the habit of running straight from its almost boiling waters into the artificially cooled Purgatorial Pool. They spent evenings in the Gambling Hell and soon learned to avoid the One Fingered Bandits so as to make their money last longer at the TriDi Roulette tanks. Insofar as the smuggling was concerned they saw nothing, heard nothing, learned nothing. As far as they could gather Denise Dalgety, although enjoying herself even more than they were, had learned nothing further, and neither had the other undercover Customs agents.

  Finally Macedon departed on the next leg of her Galactic cruise and the hotel was almost empty again, the only guests being Billinghurst and his people and Rim Malemute's crew. Larwood busied himself with the overhaul of the tourist coaches and Denise Dalgety, left to her own devices and not liking it, took up with Williams. Grimes spent much of his spare time in the company of Sally Clavering. Billinghurst sat around and sulked.

  Then, with the ship Sally Ann on her way back from Port Last, there was an outbreak of fresh activity. The main lounge was converted into a dining room, and the vast, domed dining hall was stripped of its furnitu
re—an easy job, since it had merely to be deflated and stowed—and hung with somber black drapes.

  "I don't like it, John," confessed Sally Clavering to Grimes. "But this is the way they want it, and they're paying."

  "They, I take it, being the Church of the Gateway."

  "Yes. They must be going to hold services in here. But . . . all this black. No crucifixes, or stars and crescents . . . not even a Crux Ansata."