Gateway to Never (John Grimes)

by A Bertram Chandler

  “But I’m not hooked, sir. I tried the dreamy weed only once, and they told me that its effects would be for that night only.”

  “And who,” demanded Grimes sharply, “are they?”

  Pleshoff’s immature features set into a mask of stubbornness. He muttered, “Keep them out of it. They’re my friends.”

  “You mean,” said Grimes, “that she’s your friend.”

  “Yes,” admitted the young man. And then the words poured out. “I’ve been very lonely, sir. Ever since Sheila and I broke up. Then I met this girl, here, in Port Last. It was in the park. I’d been given the afternoon off and had gone for a walk. You know how it is, sir. You meet somebody and you sort of click. She’s like the girls I used to know at home. You know—more free in her talk than the girls out here on the Rim Worlds, more way out in her dress. I took her to dinner that evening. She decided on the place. A little restaurant. Intimate. Candles on the tables, and all that. The menu on a blackboard. I didn’t know until then that there were such places out here. That was just the first night, of course. There were other nights. We . . . we became friendly. And with the ship on a regular trade, coming in to Port Last every three weeks or so, I . . .” he grinned weakly, “I had it made.

  “She had other friends, of course. All in the same age group. One night she asked me round to a party at one of their places. There was music, of course, and plenty to drink, and things to nibble on, and we were all dancing some of the time, and talking some of the time. You know.

  “And then the chap who was throwing the party got up and said, ‘Quiet, everybody! Silence in court! I have an announcement!’ Then he went on to say that the pusher had come good at last, and that the gateway to never was open. This didn’t make any sense to me. He started passing out long, pretty, porcelain pipes, and then brought out from somewhere a can of what looked like a greenish tobacco. ‘What is it?’ I asked my girl. ‘Where were you dragged up?’ she asked me. After all we mean to each other, don’t tell me that you’re a block.’”

  “A block?” asked Grimes.

  “It’s what they call stiff and stodgy and conventional people, sir. Well, I told her that I wasn’t a block. Then she said that I must be, otherwise I’d recognize dreamy weed when I saw it. Well, I’d heard about dreamy weed, of course, but you never see it in the Academy, although when I was there, for my pre-Space training, two senior cadets were booted out for smoking it. And there’s something in TG Clippers’ Company’s Regulations about it not being allowed aboard their ships. So I wasn’t keen on trying it and said that we were lifting off the next day.

  “She told me that I’d be right as rain in the morning. She told me, too, that to get the full benefit of it you had to smoke it with somebody, somebody towards whom you felt affectionate. If I wouldn’t smoke with her, she was going to smoke with . . . the name doesn’t matter.

  “You know what it’s like, sir. How a girl can make you do things you wouldn’t do ordinarily.”

  “‘Lord,’” quoted Grimes, “ ‘the woman tempted me, and I fell.’”

  “Who said that, sir?”

  “A man called Adam. Rather before your time, and even mine. But go on.”

  “It was odd, sir. The smoke, I mean. She and I shared the pipe, passing it back and forth between us. It seemed that I was inhaling something of her, and that she was inhaling something of me. And it was like breathing in a fluid, a liquid, rather than a gas. A warm, sweet, very smooth liquid. And then, somehow, as we smoked we were . . . doing other things.” Pleshoff blushed in embarrassment. “The people round us were . . . doing the same. But it wasn’t always boys with girls. There were some boys with boys, and there were girls together. And the lights were dim, and dimmer all the time, and redder, and redder, like blood. But it wasn’t frightening. It was all . . . warm, and . . . cozy. And there was a pulsing sound like a giant heartbeat. It must have been my own heart that I was hearing, or her heart, or the hearts of all of us. And we were very close, the two of us, all of us. And . . .

  “And we reached our climax. It’s the usual way of putting it, sir, and the words are the right words, but . . . can you imagine an orgasm that’s an implosion rather than an explosion? And after that there was the slow, slow falling into a deep velvety darkness, a warm darkness. . . .

  “And . . .

  “And then it was morning. Most of the others were waking up too. It should have all looked very sordid in the first light, naked bodies sprawled everywhere, but it didn’t. And I felt fine, just fine, as fine as everybody looked, as fine as I knew that I looked myself. Somebody had made coffee, and I’d never tasted coffee as good before. It tasted the way that coffee smells when it’s being ground. And my cigarette tasted the way that somebody else’s cigar usually smells. I’d have liked to have stayed for breakfast with the others, but I had to be getting back to the ship. After all, it was sailing day. So I got back to the ship. I was still feeling fine—on top of the world, on top of all the worlds. I just breezed through all the things I had to do.”

  “Including testing the gear,” remarked Grimes.

  Pleshoff’s face lost its animation. “Yes, sir. The gear. I was there, by myself, in the control room. I saw that the inertial drive was already on Stand-By. And then, quite suddenly, the thought came to me, ‘Why shouldn’t I show the old bastard—sorry, sir, the Old Man, I mean—that he’s not the only one who can handle a ship?’ I knew that he was still in Captain Dunbar’s office, and I thought it’d be a fine joke if he saw his precious Caribou lifting off without him.”

  “Mphm. A very fine joke,” commented Grimes. “You may consider yourself highly fortunate that nobody was hurt or killed. Mphm. I suggest that you tell the authorities the name of your host on that unfortunate evening—although no doubt the local detective force is quite capable of finding it out for themselves. The real villain, of course, is the pusher. If you could name him you’d probably get off with a light sentence.”

  “I can’t,” said Pleshoff dully. “And if I could, I wouldn’t.”

  Grimes shook his head sadly. “I don’t know what trade you’ll be entering after the authorities turn you loose—but whatever it is, you’ll find that schoolboy code of honor a disadvantage.” He got to his feet. “Well, Mr. Pleshoff, we’ll do our best for you. We pride ourselves that we look after our own. But I’m afraid that you won’t be one of our own for very much longer.”

  Chapter 6

  “I DON’T KNOW what today’s young people are coming to,” complained Captain Dunbar as he and Grimes left the jail. “Drugs. Orgies.”

  “I’ve never taken part in an orgy,” said Grimes rather wistfully. “Have you?”

  “Of course not!” snapped Dunbar, looking at his superior in a rather dubious manner. Then, apparently having decided that the commodore must have been joking, he went on, “Until now we’ve been clear of all this sort of thing on the Rim Worlds. I always said that it was a big mistake to open these planets to intergalactic trade.”

  “Mphm. Where am I staying, by the way?”

  “We’ve booked you into the Rimrock House, Commodore.”

  Grimes sighed. There was a Rimrock House at Port Forlorn, on Lorn, another one at Port Farewell, on Faraway, yet another at Port Edgell, on Thule. From time to time he had stayed at them all. They were the most expensive hotels on the Rim Worlds—but by no means the best. He would have preferred some place with a less pretentious menu but far better food, with the staff not rigged out like galactic high admirals, but with far better service. But it would be only for a few days, until he had this Rim Caribou mess sorted out.

  The Rimrock House was one of the huge buildings fronting on to the Central Square. Dunbar drove Grimes the short distance, although he would rather have walked, and promised that he would have the commodore’s gear picked up from Rim Malemute and sent out to the hotel.

  Grimes left the car, walked over the sidewalk to the big doorway, through the force field that prevented the atmosphere of the hotel fr
om being tainted by the excellent fresh air outside. On a world such as Lorn there would have been some point to it, but on Ultimo it was merely a very expensive absurdity. He nodded to the gorgeously uniformed doorman who had saluted him as though he were at least the Federation’s first space lord. He went to the huge desk behind which a half-dozen very pretty girls were chirping to each other like colorful inmates of an aviary. Eventually one of them condescended to notice him.

  “Sir?”

  “My name is Grimes. I am booked here.”

  “Would that be Commodore Grimes, sir?” asked the tall blonde, statuesque in her form-revealing trouser suit of crimson dermitex.

  “Yes.”

  “There is a Carlottigram for you, sir. It came in only a few minutes ago.” She handed Grimes the dark blue envelope.

  What now? he wondered as he ran a fingernail along the seal fine. What now? The envelope tidily fell apart. He looked at the message it had contained.

  From: Officer Commanding Rim Worlds Navy

  To: Commodore Grimes, D.S.M., O.C., F.H.S.C., R.W.N.R.

  Copies: c/o Rimrock House, Port Last, Ultimo

  c/o Tug, Rim Malemute, Port Last, Ultimo

  c/o Dock Office, Rim Runners, Port Last, Ultimo

  Text: As and from date of origination you are to consider yourself called to Active Service, Rim Worlds Navy, Pay and Allowances as for Commodore First Class, Expenses as requisite. You are to cooperate with Police, Customs and other authorities in investigation of drug smuggling. Indefinite leave of absence from Rim Runners arranged.

  (Signed) Kravitz

  “Mphm,” grunted Grimes thoughtfully. He could imagine what had been happening. High-up politicians must have been getting concerned about the general deterioration of Rim Worlds’ morals, and some of them must have demanded that the Navy do something about the smuggling in of drugs. And Admiral Kravitz—Grimes could just picture him—must have said, “We’ll put Commodore Grimes on the job. Anything at all off-beat is right up his alley.” And if Grimes were successful in stopping the traffic the Navy would take the credit. If he made a mess of things, it would be pointed out that, after all, he was only a reserve officer, not Navy proper. On past occasions Sonya had worked with him—but that had been when the Federation and the Confederacy had been acting in concert. On this occasion they would not be. The majority of Federated Planets approved the permissive society. The Rim Worlds did not, repeat not.

  Oh, well, thought Grimes, I suppose I’d better do something about something. For a start, I’d better organize transport for myself. Billy Williams is a reserve commander, and Rim Malemute is rated as a naval auxiliary vessel. And the Navy has a yard here, at Port Last, and an armory. It’s time I did some telephoning. It’s just as well that the Admiralty will be footing the bills.

  A smartly uniformed boy took him up to his suite. Once there Grimes called Rim Malemute, by now hooked into the planetary telephone service, and told Williams to come out to see him as soon as possible. Then he spoke to Rim Runners’ Port Last manager, telling him that he, Grimes, had been called to Active Service. He dictated a Priority Carlottigram to be sent to Admiral Kravitz, requesting the services of the Malemute and her personnel. He rang the O.I.C. Port Last Base, introducing himself and warning the officer that probably he would require some modifications made to the tug. He sent another Carlottigram, this one to Sonya, saying, Involved in fun and games. See if you can get yourself asked to the party. He caught Captain Dunbar at his office, and told him what was happening. Finally he rang the Port Last chief collector of customs.

  “Grimes here. Commodore Grimes. I’ve been instructed to work with you people on this drug running business.”

  “Oh, yes, Commodore. The Navy told us that they were putting a senior officer on to it. Hang on a moment, will you? There’s a friend of yours here would like a word with you.”

  A friend? thought Grimes. If I had any friends on this world they wouldn’t be in the customs department.

  But he recognized the face that appeared in the little screen of the telephone. It was Billinghurst, who said, “A very good day to you, Commodore. I suppose you came here over the Rim Caribou affair. I was here when it happened. There’s been a conference of all the senior customs officers of the Rim Worlds. Yes, about this drug business.” He laughed fatly. “I think you’ll admit, now, that sending out circulars isn’t quite good enough!”

  Chapter 7

  IN THE DAYS that followed, Grimes was busy. The modifications to Rim Malemute—mainly the fitting of weaponry—he left in Williams’ capable hands, concerning himself with setting up some kind of an organization and with reading all the official reports that were made available to him. Pleshoff, he learned, had been very unlucky. In the vast majority of cases those who smoked dreamy weed functioned normally on awakening. He learned, too, that the drug was not one on which one became hooked, although those who had participated in a dream time, as it was called, wished to repeat the experience as soon as possible. But, as far as he could determine, the stuff was no more dangerous than alcohol, and its overall effects were far less damaging. Still, he had been ordered to help stamp out the traffic—and, as Sonya had said, there were far too many utterly unworthy people making far too big profits from it.

  For much of the time he was having to work with Billinghurst who, even though Port Forlorn was his own bailiwick, had been put in general charge of the investigation by his Department. Grimes acquired a grudging respect for the man’s capabilities although it was still impossible to like him. Billinghurst, however, insisted on treating Grimes as an old friend. His attitude was, we’re both Lorners. We have to stand together against these Ultimo hicks.

  He said, “We’ll not be able to rely too much on the police, Commodore. They’re like all policemen, everywhere. When it comes to dealing with members of the criminal classes they’re quite efficient, but when they tangle with students, or spheres, they go all hysterical.”

  “Spheres?” asked Grimes.

  “You should study the jargon. They call themselves spheres. They call people like us blocks. We block the spheres from rolling.”

  “And just how do the . . . er . . . spheres roll, Mr. Billinghurst?”

  “Doing anything tonight, Commodore? There’s a roll around at the Dominey Hall. You and I will have to wear false beards and dress the part; spheres come in all ages and sizes. Young Pahvani—his sister is in your office—will be with us. He’s been growing his own beard so he can play the part of a sphere if necessary. He’ll tell you what to wear, and all the rest of it.”

  Grimes changed into his sphere outfit in Pahvani’s room, in the unpretentious hotel in which the young customs officer was living. He surveyed himself rather dubiously in the full-length mirror. Black leather shorts—but that part of it wasn’t so bad, he was used to wearing shorts with uniform. Bare legs—well, at least he maintained a good tan. Ornate, metal-studded sandals, looking like the sort of footwear that Roman legionaries must have worn. A short shirt, worn outside the shorts, basically dark green but liberally decorated with improbable scarlet and orange blossoms. A string of glass beads, each one a different shade of blue, and each one perfectly spherical. And the beard . . . it matched the hair of his head perfectly, but that was all that could be said in its favour. It was not the sort of beard that Grimes would ever have grown. It was too long, too untidy, untrimmed, uncombed.

  There was one consolation; Billinghurst, who did not have the build for this sort of rig, looked even worse than Grimes, his spindly legs offensively incongruous under the gross bulk of his body. Sub-Inspector Pahvani looked quite good. His beard suited him. He could have been an old-time Indian mystic.

  It was only a short walk from the hotel to the Dominey Hall, which was situated in the Old Town suburb of Port Last, differing from the ancient sheet metal buildings around it only in size. It was a huge barn of a place with no pretentions to architectural style. Projected into the air above it, in huge, shimmering letters of blue f
ire, were the words:

  TONITE! TONITE!

  ROLL-AROUND

  TONITE!

  Already there were crowds converging on the hall—men, of all ages, dressed as Grimes and his companions were dressed; girls and women, shaven-headed, most of them, similarly attired although their shorts were much shorter and many of the shirts were practically transparent.

  There were police, too, obvious in their blue and silver uniforms. One of them, when Grimes stopped to stare at the crowd, poked him quite painfully with his club, snarling, “Move along there, you bearded wonder! Move along!” Grimes decided to move along. Billinghurst chuckled and murmured, “You see what I mean about the police force, John.”

  “I see, Joe. And I feel it!”

  They reached the door, where Pahvani paid the admission for all three of them. There were no seats in the hall. There was a platform in the centre of the floor, as yet unoccupied. The glaring lights overhead were red and green, blue and yellow. The air was hot and already heavy with the odour of perspiring and not overly clean humanity. Many of the women had already removed their shirts and a few of the men had done so.

  “What band tonight, Francis?” asked Billinghurst casually.

  “The Music of the Spheres, sir.”

  “Watch it!” snarled Billinghurst.

  “The Music of the Spheres, Joe.”

  “Appropriate, I suppose,” commented Grimes. He saw that a circle of flooring in the centre of the platform was sinking, was vanishing from sight. Some sort of elevator, he supposed. It would have been impossible for the bandsmen to struggle to their places through this crowd.

  Yes, it was an elevator. It brought up the instrumentalists—three bearded men with electric guitars, three more with small drums, one seated at a piano, and an enormously fat blonde girl who was holding a microphone.