To Prime the Pump

by A Bertram Chandler

  "You could be right."

  "Of course I'm right. But come."

  She led the way out of Grimes' quarters. He supposed that, given six months or so, he would eventually learn to find his way about this castle, but this morning he certainly needed a guide. At last, several corridors and a couple of escalators later, he followed her into a panelled room at ground level, against the walls of which were stacks of weapons: light and heavy firearms, longbows and, even, spears.

  One of these latter she selected, a seven-foot shaft , of some dull-gleaming timber, tipped with a wickedly sharp metal head. She tested the point of it on the ball of her thumb, said, "This will do. Select yours."

  "A spear?" demanded Grimes, incredulous.

  "Yes, a spear. What did you expect? A laser cannon? A guided missile with a fusion warhead? Wars were fought with these things, John, once upon a time. Fought and won."

  "And fought and lost when the other side came up with bows and arrows."

  "The boar only has his tusks. And hooves."

  "And he knows how to use them." Grimes deliberately handled his spear clumsily, making it obvious that this was one weapon that he did not know how to use.

  "Just stay with me," she told him. "You'll be quite safe."

  Grimes flushed but said nothing, walked with her out of the castle into the open air.

  * * *

  It was a fine morning, the sun rising in a cloudless sky, the last of the dew still on the grass, the merest suggestion of a pleasantly cool breeze. Grimes found himself remembering the possibly mythical upper-class Englishman who was supposed to have said, "It's a beautiful day. Let's go out and kill something." So it was a beautiful day for killing wild boars, and last night (that memory suddenly flooded back) had been a beautiful night for killing white goats. He shivered a little. A boar hunt would be clean, wholesome by comparison. And, he had to admit, there was a certain glamor about sport of this kind, cruel though some might consider it.

  He looked at the hounds, their pelts boldly patterned in ruddy brown and white, streaming ahead of them in a loose pack. They were silent now, although they had belled lustily when released from their kennels. They were part of the countryside, part of this kind of life. And so was Marlene, striding mannishly (but not too mannishly) beside him. Even the two humanoid robots, tricked out in some sort of forester's livery, each carrying a bundle of spears and one of those bell-mouthed net-throwing pistols, were more part of the picture than he, Grimes, was. Even the inevitable pair of watchbirds, hovering and soaring overhead, looked like real birds, fitted in.

  There was no need for a path over the grass, something had kept it cropped short. But as they approached the woods Grimes saw that there was a track through the trees, made either by human agency or by wild animals. But the hounds ignored it, split up, each making its own way into the green dimness. They gave voice again, a cacophonous baying that, thought Grimes uneasily, must surely infuriate rather than frighten any large and dangerous animal. But they seemed to know what they were doing, which was more than he did.

  He remarked, "Intelligent animals, aren't they?"

  "Within their limitations," she replied. "They have been told to find a wild boar, the wild boar, rather, and drive him toward us. And they have enough brains to keep out of trouble themselves."

  "Which is more than I have."

  "You can say that again. Hold your spear at the ready, like this. The way you're handling it he could be on you, ripping your guts out, before you got the point anywhere near him."

  "If your watchbirds let him."

  "They can't operate in a forest, John." She grinned. "But Fritz and Fredrik"—she made a slight gesture towards the robot foresters—"have very fast reactions."

  "I'm pleased to hear that."

  They were well into the woods now, on either side of them the ancient oaks (artificially aged? imported as full-grown trees?) and overhead the branches and thick foliage that shut out the blue of the sky. Things rustled in the underbrush. Something burst from the bushes and ran across their path. Instinctively, Grimes raised his spear, lowered it when he saw that the animal was only a rabbit.

  "For them, John," remarked the Princess chidingly, "we have shotguns."

  The baying of the hounds was distant now, muffled by the trees. Perhaps they wouldn't find the boar or, old and cunning as he was, he would not allow himself to be chivvied into the open. Grimes found himself sympathizing with the animal. As Marlene had surmised, he had been in his time both hunter and hunted. He knew (as she did not) what it was like to be at the receiving end.

  The baying of the hounds was still distant but, it seemed, a little closer. "Stop," ordered the girl. "Wait here. Let him come to us."

  I'd sooner not wait, thought Grimes. I'd sooner get out of this blasted forest as though I had a Mark XIV missile up my tail.

  "Not long now," said the girl. The tip of her pink tongue moistened her scarlet lips. She looked happy. Grimes knew that he did not. He glanced at the foresters. They were standing there stolidly just behind the humans. They had not bothered to unholster their net-throwing guns. The spaceman muttered something about brass bastards too tired to pull a pistol. "Don't worry so, John," the Princess told him. "Relax."

  The clamor of the pack was louder and growing louder all the time. It was the only sound in the forest. All the little disturbing rustlings and squeakings and twitterings had ceased. Then there was a new noise, or combination of noises. It was like a medium tank crashing through the undergrowth, squealing as it came. And there was no fear in that high-pitched, nasal screaming, only rage.

  "Open up," ordered the Princess. "Give him a choice of targets. It will confuse him."

  There was room for them to spread themselves out in the clearing in which they were standing. Marlene, on his right, moved away from him. He could hear, behind him, the feet of the robots shuffling over the dead leaves and coarse grass. He stayed where he was. A shift to the left would bring him too close to the bushes, out of which the enraged animal might emerge at any moment. He thought, What am I doing here? He was no stranger to action, but a fire fight at relatively long range is impersonal. This was getting to be too personal for comfort.

  And then, ahead of them, the wild boar exploded into the clearing. He stood there for what seemed a long time (it could have been only a second, if that) glaring at them out of his little red eyes. Here was no fat and lazy piglet leading a contented life (but a short one) in the very shadow of the bacon factory. Here was a wild animal, a dangerous animal, one of those animals that are said to be wicked because they defend themselves. The tusks on him, transposed to the upper jaw, would not have been a discredit to a sabre-toothed tiger.

  He made his decision, charged at the Princess like a runaway rocket torpedo. She stood her ground, spear extended and ready and then, with a motion as graceful as it was horrible, with the sharp point deftly flicked out the brute's left eye. He was blinded on that side and she had skipped away and clear. He was blind on that side, but his right eye was good, and he could see Grimes and, furthermore, another spear licked out, wielded by one of the robots, not to kill but with the intention of turning him toward the new pain, toward the spaceman.

  Grimes wanted to run but knew that he would never be fast enough. (The girl could look after herself, or, if she could not, her faithful automatic servitors would protect her.) He wanted to run, but stubbornness more than any other quality made him remain rooted to the spot. And then—he never knew why—he threw his spear. It was not a javelin, was not designed to be used in this manner but, miraculously, sped straight and true, hitting the boar in the left shoulder, missing the bones, plunging through into the fiercely beating heart.

  Even so, the animal almost reached him, finally collapsed at his very feet.

  Slowly, Grimes turned to look at the others—at the Princess, at the robot foresters, at the grinning, tongue-lolling dogs. He felt betrayed, sensed that only his own luck (rather than skill) had saved him.
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  Marlene stared back, her eyes and wide mouth very vivid in her pale face. Then she made a tremulous attempt at a smile.

  "Third time lucky," she said. "For you."

  "What do you mean?"

  "That I've shot my bolt. Somebody else can do the dirty work."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Never mind. Let us return to the castle."

  In silence they walked back out from the dark woods.

  Chapter 21

  They lay, supine and naked, on the velvet grass of the lawn that surrounded the swimming pool, soaking up the warmth and the radiation of the afternoon sun. Grimes raised himself on his shoulders, looked at the perfect body of the girl. He thought, Yes, you may look, but you mustn't touch. And he wanted to touch, badly. Hastily he turned over onto his belly.

  "What's bothering you, John?" she asked, her voice lazy.

  Can't you see? he did not dare to say. Instead, extemporizing, he said, "I'm still puzzled by what you said. After I killed the boar."

  "What did I say?"

  "Something about third time lucky. And about somebody else having to do the dirty work." He was silent for a little. "And, tell me, was the first time when I brought the dynosoar in to a landing? And was the second time when we had the difference of opinion with the rock ogre?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about, John. I can't remember saying anything about third time lucky."

  "Can't you?"

  "No. You must have imagined it. You were rather badly shaken up." There was a touch of scorn in her voice. "Still, I suppose that it was the first time that you'd ever killed anything at short range."

  "Never mind that. Here's another point. I gained the impression that your precious Fritz and Fredrik weren't busting their tin guts to get me out of the jam."

  "You hardly gave them time, did you? Also, they are not supposed to intervene until the last possible" moment. It's like . . . how shall I put it? It's like the amusement parks you have on most of the overcrowded planets. There are those affairs called . . . roller coasters? Big Dippers? Anyhow, they give their passengers the illusion of danger. We work on the same principle."

  "So El Dorado is just one huge amusement park for the very rich?"

  She laughed, but without warmth. "You could put it that way." She got up slowly, walked to the battlements. Grimes watched the play of the muscles under her smooth skin, the sway of her round buttocks. Yes, he thought, a huge amusement park, with swimming pools on the roofs of Gothic castles, and the illusion of danger when you want it (and when you don't) and the illusion of glamorous sex. The real thing isn't for snotty-nosed ragamuffins from the wrong side of the tracks.

  She turned to face him. The sun was full on her. She was all golden, the slender length of her, save for the touches of contrasting color that were her eyes, her mouth, her taut nipples and the enameled nails of her fingers and toes.

  She said, "You aren't happy here, John." There was regret in her voice.

  He said, looking at her, "You're a marvellous hostess. But . . . But I can't help feeling an outsider."

  "But you are," she stated simply. "All of you, from your almighty Captain down to the lowest rating, are. We can fraternise with you all, but only within limits."

  "And who lays down those limits? Your precious Monitor?" She was" shocked. "Of course not. We know what those limits are. Normally we just do not mix with those who are not our kind of people. But, as we called your ship in, we realize that we are under an obligation. In your case I am trying to make up for the trouble I got you into from the very start."

  "And ever since," he said.

  "That is not fair, John. You impressed me as being the type of young man who is quite capable of getting himself into trouble without much help or encouragement."

  And this young woman has helped me enough, thought Grimes, nonetheless. Young woman? But was she? For all he knew she could be old enough to be his grandmother.

  "Why are you staring at me, John?"

  "A cat can look at a Queen," he quipped. "Or a Princess."

  "And many a cat has lost all of its nine lives for doing just that."

  Grimes transferred his attention to a tiny, jewelled beetle that was crawling over the grass just under his face.

  She said, "If you aren't happy here, John, I'll take you back to your ship."

  "Do you want me to go? "

  "No," she said at last.

  "All right. I'll stay, as long as you'll have me."

  "That wasn't very gracious."

  "I'm sorry. It was just my proletarian origins showing."

  She told him, "Please don't let them show tonight. You must be on your best behavior. I, we, have guests."

  "Oh. Anybody I know?"

  "Yes. Henri, Comte de Messigny. Hereditary Chief Lobenga and his wife, the Lady Eulalia. The Duchess of Leckhampton. Those whom you have not already met you have seen."

  "The Duchess? Yes. I remember now. On the Monitor, at the masked ball. But the Lady Eulalia?"

  "At the voodoo ceremony. It was she on the altar."

  "His wife?"

  "Yes. Lobenga is a very moral man, moral, that is, by your somewhat outdated standards."

  And that, thought Grimes, robbed the rites that he had witnessed of much of their sinful glamor. There had been, of course, that revolting business with the white goat but all over the Galaxy, with every passing second, animals were being slaughtered to serve the ends of Man. He, himself, had killed the boar and, quite possibly, sooner or later would enjoy its cooked flesh.

  Suddenly he found himself pitying these people with their empty, sterile lives. Messigny, playing at being a spaceman, Lobenga and his wife playing at Black Magic, and the old Duchess casting herself in the role of Grande Dame. And the Princess? There's nothing wrong with you, he thought, that a good roll in the hay wouldn't cure. And yet, looking at her as she stood there, proud and naked, looking down at him, he knew that she would have to make the first move.

  She said, "There is a slight chill in the air. Shall we go down?" She walked to the turret that housed the top of the escalator. He followed her. The robot Karl was awaiting them, helped the girl into a fleecy robe, knelt to slide golden sandals onto her slim feet. Grimes picked up his own robe from where he had left it, got into his footwear unassisted. He knew that had he waited a few seconds Karl would have served him as he served his mistress, but the spaceman was neither used to nor welcomed such attention. The moving stairway took them down into the castle.

  * * *

  Grimes, tricked out once again in his dress uniform, sat watching the screen of the playmaster in his living room, awaiting the summons. He had decided to allow himself just one weak drink, and was sipping a pink gin. He was ready for the knock on the door when it came, drained what was left in his glass and then followed Karl through long corridors that were, once again, strange to him. Finally, he was conducted into a room furnished with baroque splendor, in which Marlene and her guests were already seated.

  They broke off their conversation as he came in, and the two men and the Princess got to their feet. "Your Grace," said Marlene formally, "may I introduce Lieutenant John Grimes, of Aries?" The Duchess looked him up and down. If she smiles, thought Grimes, the paint will crack and the powder will flake off . . . But smile she did, thinly, a final touch to the antique elegance already enhanced by an elaborate, white-powdered wig, black beauty spot on the left cheek of her face, black ribbon around the wrinkled neck, gently fluttering fan. She extended a withered hand. Rather to his own surprise, Grimes bowed from the waist to kiss it. She looked at him approvingly.

  "Lady Eulalia, may I introduce . . . ?"

  Grimes found it hard to believe that this was the naked woman whom he had seen stretched upon the altar, who had participated in the obscene sacrifice, who had been carried into the dark jungle by the giant Negro. She smiled sweetly, demurely almost, up at him. Her skin was hardly darker than Marlene's, and only a certain fullness of the lips betrayed her ra
cial origin. Her auburn-glinting hair was piled high on her narrow head. Her splendid body was clad in a slim sheath of glowing scarlet. The effect was barbaric, and suddenly, credence restored, he could visualize her as she had appeared on the screen. He felt his ears burning.

  "We have met before, young Grimes," said de Messigny, shaking his hand. Although the grip was firm, it was cold. The Comte was not in uniform tonight, was sombrely well-dressed in form-fitting black, with a froth of lace at throat and wrists. He, like the Duchess, seemed a survivor from some earlier, more courtly age.

  "I remember seeing you at the spaceport, Lieutenant," rumbled Lobenga, a wide, dazzling smile splitting his broad, ebony face. The Hereditary Chief was wearing a white jacket over sharply creased black trousers and, under the white satin butterfly of his necktie, a double row of lustrous black pearl adorned his starched shirt front. "I am pleased with the opportunity to make your acquaintance properly." The hand that crushed Grimes' was the hand that had slain the sacrificial goat.