Craven switched on the communications equipment. He spoke quietly into the microphone. "Interstellar Transport Commission's Epsilon Sextans. Bound Waverly, with general cargo . . ."
"Bound Waverley? Then what the hell are you doing here? And what's that armament you're mounting?"
"Plastic," replied the Captain. "Plastic dummies."
"And I suppose your ALGE is plastic, too. Come off it, Jerry. We've already boarded your old ship, and although your ex-Mate was most reluctant to talk we got a story of sorts from him."
"I thought I recognized your voice, Bill. May I congratulate you upon your belated efforts to stamp out piracy?"
"And may I deplore your determination to take the law into your own hands? Stand by for the boarding party."
Grimes looked at Craven, who was slumped in his seat. The Master's full beard effectively masked his expression. "Sir," asked the Ensign. "What can they do? What will they do?"
"You're the space lawyer, Grimes. You're the expert on Survey Service rules and regulations. What will it be, do you think? A medal—or a firing squad? Praise or blame?"
"You know the Admiral, sir?"
"Yes. I know the Admiral. We're old shipmates."
"Then you should be safe."
"Safe? I suppose so. Safe from the firing squad—but not safe from my employers. I'm a merchant captain, Grimes, and merchant captains aren't supposed to range the spacelanes looking for trouble. I don't think they'll dare fire me—but I know that I can never expect command of anything better than Delta class ships, on the drearier runs." Grimes saw that Craven was smiling. "But there're still the Rim Worlds. There's still the Sundowner Line, and the chance of high rank in the Rim Worlds Navy when and if there is such a service."
"You have . . . inducements, sir?"
"Yes. There are . . . inducements. Now."
"I thought, once," said Grimes, "that I could say the same. But not now. Not any longer. Even so . . . I'm Survey Service, sir, and I should be proud of my service. But in this ship, this merchant vessel, with her makeshift armament, we fought against heavy odds, and won. And, just now, we saved ourselves. It wasn't the Survey Service that saved us."
"Don't be disloyal," admonished Craven.
"I'm not being disloyal, sir. But . . . or, shall we say, I'm being loyal. You're the first captain under whom I served under fire. If you're going out to the Rim Worlds I'd like to come with you."
"Your commission, Grimes. You know that you must put in ten years' service before resignation is possible."
"But I'm dead."
"Dead!"
"Yes. Don't you remember? I was snooping around in the Mannschenn Drive room and I got caught in the temporal precession field. My body still awaits burial; it's in a sealed metal box in the deep freeze. It can never be identified."
Craven laughed. "I'll say this for you. You're ingenious. But how do we account for the absence of the late Mr. Wolverton? And your presence aboard this ship?"
"I can hide, sir, and . . ."
"And while you're hiding you'll concoct some story that will explain everything. Oh Grimes, Grimes—you're an officer I wish I could always have with me. But I'll not stand in the way of your career. All I can do, all I will do, is smooth things over on your behalf with the Admiral. I should be able to manage that."
Jane Pentecost emerged from the hatch in the Control Room deck. Addressing Craven she said formally, "Admiral Williams, sir." She moved to one side to make way for the flag officer.
"Jerry, you bloody pirate!" boomed Williams, a squat, rugged man the left breast of whose shirt was ablaze with ribbons. He advanced with outstretched hand.
"Glad to have you aboard, Bill. This is Liberty Hall—you can spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard!"
"Not again!" groaned Grimes.
"And who is this young man?" asked the Admiral.
"I owe you—or your Service—an apology, Bill. This is Ensign Grimes, who was a passenger aboard Delta Orionis. I'm afraid that I . . . er . . . press-ganged him into my service. But he has been most . . . cooperative? Uncooperative? Which way do you want it?
"As we are at war with Waldegren—I'd say cooperative with reservations. Was it he, by the way, who used the ALGE? Just as well for you all that he did."
"At war with Waldegren?" demanded Jane Pentecost. "So you people have pulled your fingers out at last."
The Admiral raised his eyebrows.
"One of my Rim Worlders," explained Craven. "But I shall be a Rim Worlder myself shortly."
"You're wise, Jerry. I've got the buzz that the Commission is taking a very dim view of your piracy or privateering or whatever it was, and my own lords and masters are far from pleased with you. You'd better get the hell out before the lawyers have decided just what crimes you are guilty of."
"As bad as that?"
"As bad as that."
"And young Grimes, here?"
"We'll take him back. Six months' strict discipline aboard my flagship will undo all the damage that you and your ideas have done to him. And now, Jerry, I'd like your full report."
"In my cabin, Bill. Talking is thirsty work."
"Then lead on. It's your ship."
"And it's your watch, Mr. Grimes. She'll come to no harm on this trajectory while we get things sorted out."
GRIMES SAT WITH JANE PENTECOST in the Control Room. Through the ports, had he so desired, he could have watched the rescue teams extricating the survivors from the wreckage of Adler; he could have stared out at the looming bulk of Dartura on the beam. But he did not do so, and neither did he look at his instruments.
He looked at Jane. There was so much about her that he wanted to remember—and, after all, so very little that he was determined to forget.
The intercom buzzed. "Mr. Grimes, will you pack whatever gear you have and prepare to transfer with Admiral Williams to the flagship? Hand the watch over to Miss Pentecost."
"But you'll be shorthanded, sir."
"The Admiral is lending me a couple of officers for the rest of the voyage."
"Very good, sir."
Grimes made no move. He looked at Jane—a somehow older, a tireder, a more human Jane than the girl he had first met. He said, "I'd have liked to have come out to the Rim with you . . . ."
She said, "It's impossible, John."
"I know. But . . ."
"You'd better get packed."
He unbuckled his seat belt, went to where she was sitting. He kissed her. She responded, but it was only the merest flicker of a response.
He said, "Goodbye."
She said, "Not goodbye. We'll see you out on the Rim, sometime."
With a bitterness that he was always to regret he replied, "Not very likely."
THE END
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The Road to the Rim Page 12