Gateway to Never (John Grimes)

by A Bertram Chandler

  He said, prosaically, “How about getting some fresh air into this tin can, Commander?”

  “Ay, ay, Skipper!” replied Williams, cheerfully. He used a telephone to give the necessary orders to the engineroom. Within seconds the fans were no longer circulating the spaceship’s too-many-times used and reused atmosphere but were drawing directly from outside. Somebody sneezed. The scent of pine trees was strong and mingled with it was a spicy, unidentifiable aroma.

  At the village there was activity. People were going back into their huts and then reappearing. What would become a small procession was starting to assemble. There was a big man, taller than his fellows, who had put on crude body armor of leather, who was carrying a short, broad sword that gleamed like gold (that had to be bronze) in the morning sunlight. There were half a dozen other men, also armored, bearing flint-headed spears. There was a shambling giant—not as tall as the leader but much broader, heavily muscled—with the shaggy skin of some animal draped carelessly about his thick waist, the fur of it almost matching the hairiness of his own pelt. He was armed with a club, a roughly trimmed branch from a tree. And there were musicians—two pipers with primitive bagpipes, three drummers with skin-covered sections of hollowed-out log slung before their bodies. Their drumsticks—bones, they looked like—gleamed whitely.

  Somebody in the control room extruded and switched on an exterior directional microphone. The rhythmic thud and rattle of the drums came beating in, and the thin, high skirling of the pipes. For the benefit of any among his people boasting Scottish ancestry, Grimes remarked that that music hadn’t changed much over the centuries.

  Williams asked, “Are you sure this is Greece, Skipper?”

  “I can’t see any kilts,” contributed Carnaby, who was more interested in the women bringing up the rear of the procession than the men. “Not even a sporran . . .”

  “Mphm,” grunted Grimes, with a this-has-gone-far-enough intonation. With his officers he looked at the screen. The villagers were marching steadily towards the ship, led by the big, armored man and the skin-clad giant. They were followed by the musicians, behind whom were the spearmen. Bringing up the rear came the women, naked, all of them, moving with the grace that comes naturally to those accustomed from childhood to carrying burdens on their heads. And these women were so burdened—with big jars, with baskets. One had the carcass of some small animal, a kid or a lamb.

  “Sacrifices?” Grimes asked Mayhew.

  “No, Commodore. Not exactly . . . These are awkward minds . . . They’re transmitting, after a fashion, but there doesn’t seem to be a receiver among the bunch of them. Sacrifices? Peace offerings, I’d say.”

  “An odd sort of reaction from a bunch of primitives . . .”

  “Not so odd, perhaps. They’ve yet to evolve a theology, with all the trimmings. As I said before, their gods, such as they are, are superhuman rather than supernatural . . .”

  “And I suppose I’d better go down to receive these . . . peace offerings.”

  “I . . . I think so . . .”

  Briefly Grimes pondered the advisability of changing into dress uniform with its stiff linen, frock coat, fore-and-aft hat and ceremonial sword. But such regalia would be meaningless to these people—and, besides, the air temperature outside the ship was already twenty-five Centigrade degrees, and rising. His shorts and shirt would have to do, and his best cap with the scrambled egg on the peak of it, the golden laurel leaves, still undimmed by time. (And wasn’t it in Greece where the laurel wreath, as a mark of honor, first originated?)

  He said to Williams, “All right, Commander. Have the after airlock door opened, and the ramp down.” And to Hendriks, “Extrude your light armament to cover the immediate vicinity of the ship. And I’m warning you, don’t be trigger happy. Fire only on direct orders from myself or Commander Williams—” Finally, “I’d like a Guard of Honor, Major. Yourself and six of your most reliable men. Yes, wear your dress helmets, but with normal tropical khakis.”

  “And weapons?” asked Dalzell, adding “sir” as an afterthought.

  “Mphm. Stunguns only.”

  “I’d suggest projectile pistols. Apart from its lethal qualities a fifteen-millimeter makes a nice loud bang.”

  “Stunguns only,” repeated Grimes firmly. “If they are required, and if they aren’t effective, Mr. Hendriks will be able to make enough noise with his toys to keep you happy.”

  The major made no reply, saluted with deliberate sloppiness and stalked out of the control room. Another unsatisfied customer . . . thought Grimes. But the ruffled feelings of his marines were the least of his worries.

  He went down to his quarters to collect his cap. He watched Sonya as she changed from her short uniform skirt into sharply creased slacks. He said nothing, guessing that it was her reaction to the unashamed nudity of the native women. Like the majority of married men he had long since ceased to expect logical behavior from his wife.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Ready,” she replied.

  He led the way down to the after airlock.

  Chapter 15

  SLOWLY GRIMES STRODE down the ramp, keeping step to the throb and rattle of the not-now-distant drums. The mad skirling of the approaching pipes was painful. He forced himself to ignore it. Sonya marched beside him, and Mayhew kept step a little to the rear. Behind them came Dalzell and his marines, six of them, all big men. The drabness of their uniforms was obscured by the glitter of their accoutrements—the highly burnished brass, the medals with their rainbows of colored ribbons.

  When he had rough, solid ground under his feet the Commodore halted. Sonya stood at his right hand, Mayhew at his left. Behind them stood Dalzell and his line of space soldiers. At the sight of these beings emerging from the ship the procession halted; the drums missed a beat or two, the pipers paused their shrill squealing. But the two big men in the van came steadily on, one holding his gleaming sword aloft, the other with his club carried casually over his shoulder. After their initial hesitation the others followed, but without the apparent arrogant confidence of their leaders.

  Grimes stood his ground. He hoped that the marines had their stunguns ready.

  No more than six feet from the spacemen the armored man came to a halt. The giant made another step and then shuffled clumsily backward to stand beside the other. The drums and (mercifully) the pipes fell silent. The spearmen and the gift-bearing women grouped themselves behind the others.

  The commodore stared impassively at the armored man—wearing, Sonya told him later, his best Admiral-Hornblower- on-the-quarterdeck expression. The native stared impassively at the commodore. And is it up to me, Grimes asked himself, to say, “Take me to your leader?” But he is the leader. Obviously. The crude armor could not hide the superb proportions of his body. The bronze helmet and the bronze sword were conspicuous badges of rank.

  And then the chief’s sword hand moved. Sonya uttered a faint gasp. Dalzell snapped an order to his men. “Hold it!” whispered Mayhew urgently. “Hold it, Major!” And to Grimes, “It’s all right, sir . . .”

  The right hand, holding the sword, moved—but only to transfer the weapon to the left hand, which let it drop, holding it with the point down. The right hand, empty, was raised, palm out, in salute. Grimes responded, bringing the edge of his own right hand smartly to the peak of his cap. And what now? he wondered. I suppose I graciously accept the gifts.

  “Not yet, sir,” said Mayhew.

  “Do they want to see first what we are going to give them?”

  “No. It’s rather more complicated. We have to prove our superiority.”

  “That shouldn’t be hard,” said Grimes, conscious of the towering bulk of his ship behind him, of the might of her weaponry. “In fact it should be obvious.”

  “I’m not so sure . . .” murmured Sonya. “I’m not so sure . . .” She was looking at the handsome figure of the chief with something like admiration. And then Grimes realized that it was not the chief at whom she was so looki
ng; it was at the uncouth, shambling giant beside him.

  “Mphm,” grunted the commodore dubiously.

  The native leader said something in his own language. His voice was deep and musical, the words had a rhythm to them.

  Mayhew murmured, “This is not an exact translation, but I’m picking up his thoughts as he speaks. Our champion will have to fight their champion.”

  Grimes looked at that big, bronze sword. Even now, held negligently in its owner’s left hand, it appeared nastily lethal. He asked, “Can I use whatever weapon I wish? Do I have the choice of weapons?”

  Mayhew replied, “It is not the king whom you have to fight, sir. He is not the champion on an occasion such as this. Herak, the man with the club, is the champion.” He added, “And I think that it’s supposed to be a fight with no weapons—or, to be exact, only with nature’s weapons.”

  Relief dawned in the commodore’s mind. The king had his champion to do his fighting for him. What was good enough for a king was good enough for the captain of a ship. But . . . But could he order anybody to take on that hirsute hunk of overdeveloped muscle? The king of a savage community wields powers that, over the centuries, have been lost by mere shipmasters . . .

  Dalzell stepped forward to talk with his superior. He said, “I think I get the drift of it, sir. You’ll want a champion to beat the hell out of this Herak, or whatever he calls himself. Unless, of course, you’d sooner do it yourself . . .”

  “I’m not an all-in wrestler, Major.”

  “I thought not, sir. But all of my men are well trained in unarmed combat. I could call for a volunteer . . .”

  “Do that, Major.”

  The volunteer was Private Titanov—and he was a genuine volunteer. He stripped rapidly to his skimpy underpants. Divested of his uniform he could almost have been the twin of Herak. Herak grinned ferociously at him and he grinned back. It was as much a snarl as a grin. Herak handed his club to one of the spearmen, dropped the animal skin that was his only garment to the short grass, kicked it aside with a broad foot. It was picked up by a girl, who clasped it almost reverently to her full breasts. The giant flexed his muscles; they crawled under the hairy skin like thick snakes. He drummed on his barrel chest with his great fists, threw his head back and howled like a wolf.

  Meanwhile, the king was giving orders in an authoritative voice. His people formed a rough ring, about ten meters in diameter, in the center of which the champion took his place. Herak grinned again and lifted his right arm; it was as thick as the thigh of a normal man. His fist was clenched. He did not need his heavy club. This was weapon enough.

  The king looked towards Grimes. He said nothing, but the expression on his handsome, bearded face was easy enough to read. Are you ready? Is your man ready? “Yes,” said the Commodore. “Yes.” He hoped that the other would, somehow, understand him.

  The king transferred his gleaming sword to his right hand, raised it, brought it down with a slashing motion. The drummers rattled briefly and noisily. The pipers emitted a short, strident squeal.

  “Go, Titanov, go!” ordered Dalzell.

  “Go, go, go!” chanted the other marines.

  Titanov went. He advanced slowly, crouching, massive shoulders hunched. He reached the perimeter of the ring. A man and a woman moved apart to allow him ingress. The woman detained him briefly, putting out her hand to finger, curiously, the material of his shorts. At least that is what Grimes, who had his prudish moments, hoped that she was doing. Titanov broke away, kept on coming. In spite of his bulk, his motion was like that of a great cat. His arms were hanging loosely at his sides, his fists were clenched. Not that this meant anything; a karate chop is deadlier than a punch. Then he was within range of Herak’s right fist—which, suddenly, swept down like a steam hammer. Had it connected, the marine’s brains would have been spattered over the grass.

  But it did not connect. Titanov skipped backwards with surprisingly delicate grace, like a ballet dancer—and he kicked, high, with deadly precision. Herak screamed, dreadfully and shrilly. He fell face forward on to the turf, clutching his genitals. His shoulders heaved as he noisily vomited.

  Grimes heard Dalzell barking orders, realized that the major feared that the foul fighting of his man might well precipitate hostile action on the part of the villagers. He grasped Sonya’s arm, intending to spin her around and shove her towards the ramp at the first sign of trouble.

  Mayhew laughed softly. “Don’t worry, John. It was a fair fight as far as they are concerned. They accept the decision.”

  “More than I’d do in their shoes . . .”

  “They’re not wearing any.”

  The women had crowded around Titanov, embracing him, almost mobbing him. One of them had produced a wreath of green leaves from somewhere and had crowned him with it. Evidently the felled champion was not popular.

  “Titanov!” snapped Dalzell. Then, in a louder voice, “Titanov!”

  “Sir?” replied the Marine at last.

  “Come back here and get dressed. At once!”

  “Sir.”

  Titanov managed to extricate himself from his female admirers. They let him go reluctantly. He walked slowly back towards the ship. He had lost his underpants, but did not seem to be at all embarrassed.

  Chapter 16

  “AND WHAT NOW?” Grimes asked Mayhew. He looked with pity towards the groaning Herak, still huddled on the grass, now in a fetal position. He said, “Perhaps I should send for the doctor to do what he can for that poor bastard . . .”

  “No, sir. I advise against it. I have an idea that the local wise woman or witch or whatever will be out soon from the village to take care of him . . .”

  “And what’s the king saying?”

  “He’s ordering his women to present the gifts to you.”

  “Oh. And what do I do?”

  “Accept them graciously. Smile. Say something nice. You know.”

  “Mphm. I think that can be managed. And do I reciprocate?”

  “Only to the king, sir. His name, I think, is Hektor . . .”

  “And what would he like?”

  “He’s rather hoping, sir, that you’ll present him with something fancy in the way of weapons . . .”

  “Firearms are out of the question,” snapped Grimes testily. He was feeling out of his depth. On a normal survey voyage there would have been a horde of specialists to advise him—experts in linguistics, sociology, zoology, botany, geology . . . The list was almost endless. Now he had not so much as a single ethologist. He was lucky to have two excellent telepaths; their talent helped him to surmount, after a fashion, the language barrier.

  “Your dress sword . . .” suggested Sonya. “I never did like that anachronistic wedding-cake cutter.”

  “No.”

  “If I may make a suggestion, sir,” said Dalzell, “my artificer sergeant has been amusing himself making some rather good arbalests—crossbows. He thought that such weapons could be useful if, at some time, we ran completely out of ammunition for our projectile rifles and pistols . . .”

  “Thank you, Major. One of those should do very nicely . . .”

  Dalzell spoke into his wrist-transceiver, then said to Grimes, “The arbalest will be down in a couple of seconds, sir.”

  “Good.”

  The king was approaching slowly, his gleaming sword once again held proudly aloft. Behind him marched the women with the jars and the baskets, the slaughtered lamb, balanced on their heads. They moved gracefully, their naked bodies swaying seductively as they walked. Some of them were blondes and some brunettes, and the skins of all of them were a lustrous, golden brown. Grimes—and the other men—watched them with undisguised admiration.

  Sonya said sharply, “Beware the Greeks when they come bearing gifts!”

  “Ha!” snorted Grimes. “Ha! Very funny.”

  “But rather apt, my dear.”

  The king stood to stiff attention, a little to one side of the line of advance of the gift-bearers. Slowly the le
ading woman, a statuesque blonde, approached Grimes. With both hands she lifted the jar from her head and then, falling to her knees with a fluid motion, deposited it on the grass at the commodore’s feet. She got up, bowed, then turned and walked away.

  “You didn’t thank her,” said Sonya. “But no doubt your mind was on other things, although not higher things . . .”

  “I think that’s oil in the jar,” said Mayhew. “Olive oil.”

  Grimes was ready for the other women. As each of them made her presentation he smiled stiffly and murmured, “Thank you, thank you . . .” Some of the baskets, he saw, contained grain and others held berries. Probably, he thought, some of the jars would contain wine or beer. He began to wonder what it would be like . . .

  “Sir, sir!” It was Dalzell’s artificer sergeant. “The crossbow, sir.”

  “Oh, yes.” Grimes took the weapon in his right hand. It was heavy, but not overly so. He examined it curiously and with admiration. There was a stirrup at the head wide enough to take even a big foot. For cocking it there was not a small windlass, as was used in the first arbalests, but an ingeniously contrived folding lever. The construction was metal throughout. Modern in design and manufacture as it was, it would never be the superb rapid-fire weapon that the longbow became (was to become) but it was powerful, and deadly, and accurate . . . The king had approached Grimes, was standing over him. Eager anticipation was easy to read in his bearded face.

  “Would you mind demonstrating, Sergeant?” asked the commodore, handing the crossbow back to the man.

  “Certainly, sir.” The sergeant lowered the stirrup to the ground, put his right foot into it, then heaved upwards with both hands grasping the cocking lever, grunting with the effort. There was a sharp click as the pawl engaged. He then took a steel quarrel from the pouch at his belt, inserted it into the groove. He raised the skeleton butt to his shoulder. He kept it there, but looked puzzled. “What’s me target, sir?” he asked.