Gateway to Never (John Grimes)

by A Bertram Chandler

  “All religions are gateways, I suppose, or make out that they’re gateways—gateways to . . . something.” He tried to steer the conversation back on to its original track. “With all this trade I can’t see how you or Captain Clavering have anything to worry about.”

  “That’s it, Commodore. We shouldn’t have any worries. But Ian’s been . . . odd lately. Forgive me for suggesting it, but I thought that you, as a fellow shipmaster, might be able to pull him out of it. He’ll tell you things that he wouldn’t tell me.”

  Is there a marriage guidance counsellor in the house? thought Grimes. He said, “Just a phase, probably. All marriages pass through them. There are times when Sonya—you must meet her some time—when Sonya and I are hardly on speaking terms. But we get over it.” Another woman? he asked himself. Or . . . ?

  She read his thoughts, partially at least. She said, “It’s not another woman. He has his opportunities, running a resort like this. He may have taken an occasional opportunity. But his . . . his secrecy is worse between ships, at times like this when the hotel is empty. There’s something on his mind. He hardly slept at all last night, and when he did sleep he was muttering to himself. And it wasn’t a woman’s name, either. It was, I think, just technicalities. ‘Thrust’ came into it. And ‘breaking strain’.”

  “Mphm. Just a technician’s nightmare. I get ’em myself sometimes.” He remembered the dream that Williams must have experienced when he, Grimes, tried in vain to awaken him. “So do other people. Oh, by the way, do you bottle your own mineral water?”

  She looked surprised at the abrupt change of subject, then said, “Yes. As a matter of fact we do. We have a small plant on the bank of the river, the only river, running into the Bitter Sea. Its water’s not quite as rich in assorted chemicals as the Sea itself. Rather an acquired taste, actually, although it’s supposed to have all sorts of medicinal qualities. The tourists drink it religiously. We import soft drinks too—but they’re mainly for the devils, who enjoy anything as long as it’s really sweet.”

  “I had some of your own mineral water last night, when I turned in. I thought it tasted a bit . . . odd.”

  “It most certainly does, Commodore. I never touch it myself. But the bottling plant is one of Ian’s hobbies.” She lapsed into a short, brooding silence. “If ever a man should be happy, it’s him.”

  “Men are unwise and curiously planned,” quoted Grimes.

  “You can say that again, Commodore. But here comes your Commander Williams. He looks as though he has real worries. I’ll leave you to him.”

  Williams dropped into the chair vacated by Sally Clavering, so heavily that Grimes feared that he would burst it. He said, “She’s had it. She’s really had it, Skipper. The inertial drive unit sheared its holding-down bolts. The Mannschenn Drive looks like one of those mobile sculptures—an’ about as much bloody use! Even the boats are in a mess—the inertial drive units again. The work boat is the least badly damaged.”

  “Radio gear?”

  “We can fix the NST transceiver, I think, but not the Carlotti. We haven’t the spares. But the Malemute herself . . . we have to get her sitting up properly before we can start any major repairs, an’ there’s no heavy lifting gear on the bloody planet. We could do it by using a tug—but Rim Malemute is the only tug we have in commission—had in commission—on the whole bloody Rim. Oh, yes, there’s Rim Husky, but she’s been laid up for so long that she’s just part of the Port Edgell scenery—an’ at her best she couldn’t pull a soldier off her sisters!”

  “We can ask Captain Clavering to hook on to the Malemute when he takes his Sally Ann out.”

  “Yes, we can, I suppose. He’s very good at towing, isn’t he? Ha, ha! An’ when’ll that be, Skipper?”

  “Not until Macedon’s arrived here. Mphm. I doubt if he’ll come at it. Too much chance of damaging Macedon.”

  “He didn’t mind damaging Sobraon. Although I did hear, from that young puppy in Aero-Space Control, that she got away with no worse than a few scratches an’ some dented fairing. Clavering’s on his way back down from orbit now, an’ Captain Gillings, the pride of TG Clippers, is on his way rejoicing. What a pair! What a bloody pair! He an’ Clavering. . . .”

  “You weren’t too bright yourself this morning.”

  Williams grinned ruefully. “No, I wasn’t, was I? Do you know what I think it was?” He obviously did not expect that his story would be believed. “I had one helluva thirst when I turned in, and all that was in the ’fridge was a half-dozen bottles of lolly-water. It tasted like it’d been drunk before, but it was cold and wet. You know, Skipper, I think it must have gone bad.”

  “You could be right,” said Grimes, “although not in the way you mean.”

  Chapter 21

  CLAVERING CAME IN FROM ORBIT. As soon as his boat had landed he sought out Grimes. He said, “I’m afraid I made a mess of your Rim Malemute.”

  “You did just that, Captain Clavering. I take it you’ve seen my letter on the subject?”

  “I have, Commodore. Don’t you think it was rather unnecessary?”

  “No. I represent the Rim Worlds Navy, and when one of their ships is damaged I have to make sure that the person responsible, or his insurance company, foots the bill for repairs.”

  Clavering grinned without mirth. “I suppose you read the copy of Inferno Valley Port Regulations I had put aboard your Malemute? One of the rules is that anybody who lands on this planet does so at his own risk. But we’re both of us spacemen, Commodore. Suppose you enjoy your holiday here, and let the lawyers argue about who pays whom for what.” His grin was friendly now. “I’m sure that you and Commander Williams will join me in a drink to show that there’s no hard feelings.”

  “Smoke the pipe of peace,” said Grimes.

  Clavering looked at him, hard, but Grimes kept his face expressionless, thinking, I shouldn’t mind betting that he could produce a pipe of dreamy weed if it were called for.

  A devil brought cold drinks. The commodore sipped his, then said, “I’m not sure that I should be having this. And I’m sure that Williams should lay off the grog after his effort last night. We both of us slept in. Of course, if we’d been called on time . . .”

  Clavering flushed—guiltily? He said, “I seem to be doing nothing else but apologize. It was my fault. I should have seen to it personally that your level devil understood the instructions. I should have checked up on you before I left the hotel. But I overslept myself, and had to rush down to the ship almost as soon as I was out of bed. With these big brutes the only safe time to lift off or land is during the dawn or sunset lull.”

  “And even then it’s not all that bloody safe,” remarked Williams.

  “Nothing is safe, Commander, ever. You should know that by this time.”

  “If anything can go wrong, it will,” contributed Grimes.

  “You said it, Commodore. It’s really surprising that things don’t go wrong more often.”

  “Mphm. And now, Captain Clavering, much as we’re enjoying your hospitality I have to remind you that we’re here on business.”

  “Business?” Was there a flicker of fear in Clavering’s eyes?

  “Yes. This survey for the projected base. Had you forgotten? I was wondering if we could hire transport from you.”

  Clavering did his best to look apologetic. “Normally I’d be only too pleased to let you have something suitable, Commodore. But this request of yours comes at an awkward time. Apart from Sally Ann’s boats I have only two heavy-duty atmosphere craft. They were both used extensively for tours during Sobraon’s stay on Eblis, and with maintenance staff working flat out they’ll be ready for use again just when Macedon comes in.”

  “What about Sally Ann’s boats?”

  “Once again, out of the question. I’ve just finished getting them up to the required standard for my charter trip. You know as well as I do—better than I do, probably—what sticklers for regulations the Department of Navigation surveyors are at Port L
ast, and that’s where I shall be going. I don’t want to be held up the same as Ditmar has been.”

  “I suppose not. How about ground cars?”

  “We don’t have any—not for passenger transport. We have the trucks bringing chemicals from our plant on the Bitter Sea.”

  “And bottles of mineral water.”

  “Yes. Have you tried our Bitter Soda yet? You should. A universal panacea for all the ills afflicting man.”

  “Including insomnia?”

  “Possibly. I don’t drink the muck myself.”

  “You just make it.”

  “Yes.”

  “I often wonder what the vintners make,” quoted Grimes, “one half so precious as the stuff they sell. Or should it be ‘buy,’ not ‘make’? No matter.”

  “What are you driving at, Commodore?” demanded Clavering.

  “I’m not sure myself, Captain. Just thinking out loud. Sort of doodling without pen or paper. And as I can’t be getting on with my survey I shall be doing a lot of thinking, just to pass the time. Call me Cassius.”

  “Cassius?” asked Williams, breaking the silence.

  “Yes. He had a lean and hungry look. He thought too much. He was dangerous.”

  “You’ll be able to go on the tours when Macedon comes in,” said Clavering. “The Painted Badlands. The Valley of the Winds and the Organ Pipes. The Fire Forest . . .”

  “From what I’ve already learned,” said Grimes, “none of them at all suitable sites for a naval base.”

  “There just aren’t any suitable sites. Period.”

  “Looks as though I was wasting my time coming here, doesn’t it?”

  “Sally Ann will be empty on the run from here to Port Last,” said Clavering a little too eagerly. “I’ll be pleased to give passage to you and Commander Williams and the rest of Rim Malemute’s officers.”

  “Thank you, Captain. But we can’t accept. Traditions of the Service, and all that. Don’t give up the ship. She’s our responsibility. I’m afraid we’re stuck here until she’s repaired.”

  “I suppose I might tow her back to Port Last for you,” suggested Clavering doubtfully.

  Grimes went through the motions of considering this. Then, “Too risky. Deep space towing’s a very specialized job, as Williams, here, will tell you. And the most awkward part would be getting the Malemute off the ground. You’ve all damn room to play within your spaceport at the best of times, and when your Sally Ann lifts off you’ll have Macedon cluttering up the apron, with mooring wires every which way. No. Not worth the risk.”

  “At least,” said Clavering, “I shall be having the pleasure of your company for quite some time.” He was obviously trying to convey the impression that the prospect was a pleasurable one. He essayed a smile. “So, gentlemen, make yourselves at home. This is Liberty Hall. You can spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard.”

  The literal-minded Williams looked around him, at the pneumatic furniture, the inflated walls. He grinned, “If you did have a cat you would be calling him a bastard, or worse, I can just imagine one racing around in here, digging his claws into everything.”

  Clavering smiled, genuinely this time. He said, “This plastic is tougher than it looks. It has to be, as the devils just refuse to cut their toenails. But it is a nightmare I have sometimes, the skins of the bubbles pricked and the whole damn place just collapsing on itself like a punctured balloon. But it can’t ever happen.”

  “Famous last words,” said Grimes cheerfully. “It can’t happen here.”

  “It can’t,” Clavering told him forcefully.

  Chapter 22

  GRIMES WAS FAR FROM HAPPY and was wishing, most sincerely, that the Navy had assigned somebody else to work with the Customs in this drug-running investigation. What put him off the job more than anything else was being obliged to accept Clavering’s hospitality—it was impossible to live aboard Rim Malemute until such time as she was righted. He had insisted that the ex-captain send the bills for himself and the tug’s officers to the Rim Worlds Admiralty, but there were still the rounds of drinks on the house and, with Williams, dining every night at Clavering’s table. He was more than ever sure that he was not cut out to be a policeman. But the memories of those three young people—two dead and one with his career ruined—persisted.

  He talked matters over with Williams while the two of them paced slowly along the left bank of the Styx. The tug skipper was but a poor substitute for Sonya on such an occasion, but he was the only one in whom Grimes could confide.

  He said, “I don’t like it, Commander Williams.”

  “Frankly, Skipper, neither do I. Clavering ain’t all that bad a bastard, an’ his wife’s a piece of all right, an’ here we are, sleepin’ in his beds, eatin’ his tucker an’ slurpin’ his grog. An’ if all goes well, from our viewpoint, we’ll be puttin’ him behind bars.”

  “Mphm. Not necessarily. His legal status, like that of his world, is rather vague. Even so, the Rim Worlds governments, both overall and planetary, could make life really hard for him. For example, somebody might decide that Inferno Valley is the site for a naval base. But I’m not concerned so much with the legalities. It’s the personal freedom angle. If somebody wants to blow his mind, has any government the right to try to stop him?”

  “I see what you mean, Skipper. But when that same somebody is in a position of responsibility, like young Pleshoff, he has to be stopped. Or when somebody, like Clavering, is making a very nice profit out of other people’s mind-blowing . . .”

  “In most of the Federated worlds it’s the governments that make the profits, just as they do from every other so-called vice—liquor, tobacco, gambling. . . . Damn it all, Williams, is Clavering a sinner, or is he just a criminal, only until such time that somebody sees fit to liberalize our laws?”

  “I’m not a theologian, Skipper.”

  “Neither am I. But both of us, when sailing in command, have been the law and the prophets. Both of us have deliberately turned a blind eye to breaches of regulations, whether Company’s or Naval.”

  “When you’re Master Under God,” observed Williams, “you can do that sort of thing an’ get away with it. The trouble now is that we have far too many bastards between us an’ the Almighty. It’s all very well our hearts fair bleedin’ for Clavering—but we have to keep our own jets clear.”

  “Mphm. All right, then. You suggest that we regard ourselves as policemen, pure and simple.”

  “I’ve known a few simple ones,” said Williams, “but I’ve yet to meet one who’s pure.”

  “You know what I mean!” snapped Grimes testily. “Don’t try to be funny. Now, we think that the dreamy weed is coming in through Eblis, and that it’s transshipped from here to Ultimo or wherever in Ditmar. Clavering tells me, by the way, that she’s still held up. Her yeast vats were condemned. But where was I? Oh, yes. We think that the contraband is shipped from somewhere to Eblis. Through the spaceport? No, I don’t think so. Too many people around, even when there’s no cruise ship in, who might talk out of turn. Only a dozen of the people here are Sally Ann originals; the rest are Rim Worlders. The head waiters, the chef and his assistants, the mechanics in the repair shops . . . So. So this is a fair hunk of planet, and I’d say that the only man who really knows it is Clavering, and Clavering, by putting the Malemute and her boats out of commission, has made sure that we don’t get really to know it.

  “Our fat friend Billinghurst is due here shortly, in Macedon, and he’ll be relying on us to lay on transport. And we can’t lay it on, and I can’t see the master of Macedon lending us one of his boats.”

  “So we just go on sittin’ our big, fat butts doin’ sweet damn’ all,” said Williams. “Suits me, Skipper.”

  “It doesn’t suit me, Commander Williams. Much as we may dislike it we have a job to do. And as long as we’re the ones who’re doing it we stand some chance of protecting Clavering from the more serious consequences.”

  “That’s one way of lookin’ at it,
Skipper. And Mrs. Clavering, of course. Pardon me bein’ nosey, but she an’ you seem to be gettin’ on like a house on fire. Long walks by the river after dinner while Clavering’s in his office cookin’ his books.”

  “If you must know, Commander Williams, she has asked my help, our help. She knows that her husband is mixed up in something illegal, but not what it is. She has told me about the prospecting trips that he makes by himself, and about the Carlotti transceiver that he keeps, under lock and key, at his bottling plant by the Bitter Sea.”

  “Nothin’ wrong with that. When he’s out there he has to keep in touch with home.”

  “Yes, but an NST transceiver would do for that. You should know by this time that a Carlotti set is only for deep space communications.”

  “Just a radio ham,” suggested Williams. “When he gets tired of hammering the stoppers on to bottles he retires to his den and has a yarn with a cobber on Earth or wherever.”

  “Mphm. I doubt it. Anyhow, Mrs. Clavering is far from happy. She’d like to see her husband drop whatever it is he’s doing, but she wouldn’t like to see him in jail. If we can catch him before that fat ferret Billinghurst blows in we shall be able to help him to stay free. If Billinghurst gets his claws into him, he’s a goner.”

  “You sure make life complicated, Skipper,” complained Williams.

  “Life is complicated. Period. Now, your work boat . . .”

  “In working order. But if you intend a long trip it’ll be so packed with power cells that there’ll be room for only one man.”

  “Good enough. And your engineers, I think, have been passing the time doing what repairs they can to Malemute, and have been in and out of Clavering’s workshop borrowing tools and such.”

  “Correct.”

  “By this time they should be on friendly terms with Clavering’s mechanics.”

  “If they don’t know by this time which of the boats it is that Clavering takes out to the Bitter Sea, they should.”