Upon a Sea of Stars

by A Bertram Chandler

  Grimes pulled from his pocket the deadly little Minetti automatic that was his favorite firearm. Viciously, Farrell knocked his hand down, whispering, “Hold it, Commodore! Don’t forget that we represent the Federation . . .”

  “You might,” snarled Grimes.

  But the King had seen the show of weapons; Grimes learned later that the two spacemen had also made threatening gestures with their machine pistols. He let his arm fall to his side. His clawed fingers slowly straightened. At last he spoke again—and the unpleasant gibbering was less high-pitched, less hysterical.

  Sonya translated. “His Majesty is . . . disappointed. He feels that he has been . . . betrayed.”

  “Tell his Majesty,” said Farrell, “that my own rulers forbid me to take part in this civil war. But His Majesty and those loyal to him will be transported to a suitable world, where they will want for nothing.”

  Grimes tried to read the expression on the King’s face. Resignation? Misery? It could have been either, or both. Then his attention was attracted by the glint of metal evident in the crowd behind the deposed monarch. He saw that most of the Esquelians were armed, some with vicious-looking swords, others with projectile weapons, archaic in design, but probably effective enough. He doubted if any of the natives would be able to fly the pinnace—but a human pilot might do what he was told with a knife at his throat.

  Farrell spoke again. “Tell His Majesty, Commander Verrill, that if he has any ideas about seizing my pinnace he’d better forget ‘em. Tell him that those odd-looking antennae poking out from their turrets are laser cannon, and that at the first sign of trouble this plateau will be one big, beautiful barbecue. Tell him to look at that bird, there . . .” he pointed . . . “over to the eastward.” He raised his wrist to his mouth, snapped an order into the microphone.

  After Sonya finished her translation, everybody looked at the bird—if bird it was. It was a flying creature of some kind, big, with a wide wing span. It was a carrion eater, perhaps, hovering to leeward of the island in the hope of a meal. It died suddenly in a flare of flame, a gout of greasy smoke. A sparse sprinkling of smoldering fragments drifted down to the surface of the sea.

  There was an outburst of squealing and gibbering. The Esquelians, with quite advanced armaments of their own at the time of Man’s first landing on their world, had never, until now, been treated to a demonstration of the more sophisticated Terran weaponry. But they were people who knew that it is not the bang of a firearm that kills.

  “His Majesty,” said Sonya, “demands that he and his people be taken off this island, as soon as possible, if not before.” She grinned. “That last is a rather rough translation, but it conveys the essential meaning.”

  “I am happy to obey,” replied Farrell. “But he and his people will have to leave all weapons behind.”

  There was more argument, and another demonstration of the pinnace’s firepower, and then the evacuation was gotten under way.

  It had been intended, when the beacon was established on Drarg Island, that the island itself should serve as a base for some future survey party. The rock was honeycombed with chambers and tunnels, providing accommodation, should it be required, for several hundred humans. At the lowest level of all was the power station, fully automated, generating electricity for lights and fans as well as for the Carlotti beacon. The refugees had been able to live there in reasonable comfort—and in considerable squalor. Grimes decided that, as soon as things quietened down, he would get Sonya to inquire as to whether or not the flush toilet had been invented on Esquel. In spite of the excellent ventilation system, the stench was appalling.

  But it was necessary for Sonya, at least, to go down into those noisome passages. In spite of the King’s protests, Farrell had ordered that no property be lifted from the island; his orders were to save life, and life only. There were tons, literally, of gold and precious stones. There were tons of documents. These latter were, of course, of interest, and Sonya was the only member of Star Pioneer’s party able to read them. And so, accompanied by Grimes and two junior officers, she went into the room in which the papers had been stacked, skimmed through them, committing those that she thought might be important to microfilm. Now and again, for the benefit of her helpers, she translated. “This,” she told them, “seems to be the wages sheet, for the palace staff . . . No less than fourteen cooks, and then fifty odd scullions and such . . . And a food taster . . . And a wine taster . . . And, last of all, and the most highly paid of the lot, a torturer. He got twice what the executioner did . . .” She passed the sheet to the Ensign who was acting as photographer, picked up the next one. “H’m. Interesting. This is the pay list for the Royal Guard. The Kardonar—roughly equivalent to Colonel—got less than the Third Cook . . .”

  “This could be just yet another Colonels’ Revolt,” commented Grimes. He looked at his watch, which had been adjusted to local time. “Midnight. Time we had a break. This stink is getting me down.”

  “You can say that again, sir,” agreed one of the Ensigns.

  “All right,” said Sonya at last. “I think we’ve skimmed the cream down here.”

  “Cream?” asked Grimes sardonically.

  They made their way up the winding ramps, through the tunnels with their walls of fused rock, came at last to the surface. The plateau was brightly illumined by the floodlights that Farrell’s men had set up. The pinnace was away on a shuttle trip, and only a handful of natives remained, huddling together for warmth in the lee of the beacon machinery house. The King, Grimes noted sardonically, was not among them; obviously he was not one of those captains who are last to leave the sinking ship. He was quite content to let Farrell be his stand in.

  The Commander walked slowly to Grimes and Sonya. “How’s it going, Commander Verrill?” he asked.

  “Well enough,” she replied. “We’ve enough evidence to show that this was a thoroughly corrupt regime.”

  “Physically, as well as in all the other ways,” added Grimes. “This fresh air tastes good! How are you off for deodorants aboard Star Pioneer, Commander Farrell?”

  “Not as well as I’d like to be, Commodore. But I’ll put the bulk of the passengers in deep freeze, so it shouldn’t be too bad.” He looked up at the sky. “It’ll be a while before the pinnace is back. Perhaps, sir, you might like a look at some of the surface craft that these people came out to the island in. There’s a half dozen of them at the jetty; rather odd-looking contraptions . . .”

  “I’d like to,” said Grimes.

  Farrell led the way to the edge of the plateau, to a stairway, railed at the seaward edge, running down the cliff face to a sheltered inlet in which was a short pier. Moored untidily alongside this were six sizable boats, and there was enough light from the floods at the cliff top for Grimes to make out details before he and the others commenced their descent.

  “Yes, I’d like a closer look,” he said. “Steam, I’d say, with those funnels. Paddle steamers. Stern-wheelers. Efficient in smooth water, but not in a seaway . . .”

  He led the way down the stairs, his feet clattering on the iron treads. He said, “I’d like a trip in one of those, just to see how they handle . . .”

  “Out of the question, Commodore,” laughed Farrell.

  “I know,” said Grimes; as Sonya sneered, “You and your bloody seamanship!”

  They stepped from the stairway on to the concrete apron, walked across it to the foot of the jetty. Grimes stopped suddenly, said, “Look!”

  “At what?” demanded Sonya.

  “At that craft with the red funnel . . . That’s smoke, and a wisp of steam . . . She’s got steam up . . .”

  Farrell’s laser pistol was out of its holster, and so was Sonya’s. Grimes pulled his own Minetti out of his pocket. Cautiously they advanced along the pier, trying to make as little noise as possible. But the natives who erupted from the tunnel at the base of the cliff were completely noiseless on their broad, bare feet and, without having a chance to use their weapons, to
utter more than a strangled shout, the three Terrans went down under a wave of evil-smelling, furry bodies.

  Grimes recovered slowly. Something hard had hit him behind the right ear, and he was suffering from a splitting headache. He was, he realized, propped in a sitting posture, his back against a wall of some kind. No, not a wall—a bulkhead. The deck under his buttocks had a gentle rolling motion, and—his head was throbbing in synchronization—there was the steady chunk, chunk, chunk of a paddle wheel. Grimes tried to lift his hands to his aching head, discovered that his wrists were bound. So were his ankles.

  He heard a familiar voice. “You and your bloody boats!”

  He opened his eyes. He turned his head, saw that Sonya was propped up beside him. Her face, in the light of the flickering oil lamp, was pale and drawn. She muttered sardonically, “Welcome aboard, Commodore.” Beyond her was Farrell, trussed as were the other two. Nonetheless, he was able to say severely, “This is no time for humor, Commander Verrill.”

  “But it is, James,” she told him sweetly.

  “What. . . what happened?” asked Grimes.

  “We were jumped, that’s what. It seems that a bunch of the loyalists—quote and unquote—suffered a change of mind. They’d sooner take their chances with the rebels than on some strange and terrifying planet . . .”

  “Better the devil you know . . .” said Grimes.

  “Precisely.”

  “But where do we come in?” asked the Commodore.

  “They had to stop us from stopping them from making their getaway,” explained Farrell, as though to a mentally retarded child.

  “There’s more to it than that, James,” Sonya told him. “There’s a radio telephone of some kind in the compartment forward of this. Battery powered, I suppose. Not that it matters. Our friends have been arranging a rendezvous with a rebel patrol craft. They’ve made it plain that they’re willing to buy their freedom, their lives. And the price is . . .”

  “Us,” completed Grimes. “What’s the current market value of a full Commander in the Survey Service these days, Farrell? I’ve no doubt that the rebels will wish to show a profit on the deal.”

  “And how many laser cannon, complete with instruction manuals, is the Confederacy willing to pay for you, Commodore?” asked Commander Farrell.

  “Shut up!” snapped Sonya.

  The cabin was silent again, save for the creaking of timbers, the faint thudding of the engines, the chunk, chunk, chunk of the paddle. And then, audible in spite of the intervening bulkhead, there was the high-pitched gibbering, in bursts, that, in spite of the strange language, carried the sense of “over,” “roger” and all the rest of the standard radio telephone procedure.

  Sonya whispered, “As far as I can gather, hearing only one end of the conversation, the patrol craft has sighted this tub that we’re in. We’ve been told to heave to, to await the boarding party . . .” As she spoke, the engines and the paddle wheel slowed, stopped.

  There was comparative silence again. Grimes strained his ears for the noise of an approaching stern-wheeler, but in vain. There was, he realized, a new mechanical sound, but it came from overhead. Then it, too, ceased. He was about to speak when there was a loud thud from the deck outside, another, and another . . . There was an outbreak of excited gibbering. Shockingly, there were screams, almost human, and three startlingly loud reports.

  Abruptly the cabin door slammed open. Two Esquelians came in. There was dark, glistening blood on the fur of one of them, but it did not seem to be his own. They grabbed Grimes by the upper arms, dragged him roughly out on deck, jarring his lower spine painfully on the low sill of the door. They left him there, went back in for Sonya, and then Farrell.

  Grimes lay where they had dropped him, looking upward. There were lights there, dim, but bright against the black sky, the sparse, faint stars. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he could make out the great, baggy shape of the dirigible balloon, the comparative rigidity of the gondola slung under it. While he was trying to distinguish more details a rope was slipped about his body and he was hoisted aloft, like a sack of potatoes, by a creakingly complaining hand winch.

  “And what now, Commodore? What now?” asked Farrell. By his tone of voice he implied, You’ve been in far more irregular situations than me . . .

  Grimes chuckled. “To begin with, we thank all the odd gods of the galaxy that real life so very often copies fiction . . .”

  Sonya snarled, “What the hell are you nattering about?”

  Grimes chuckled again. “How often, in thrillers, have the baddies tied up the goodies and then carelessly left them with something sharp or abrasive to rub their bonds against. . . ?”

  “You aren’t kidding?” she asked. Then—”And since when have you been a goodie?”

  “You’d be surprised . . .” Grimes swore then, briefly and vividly. The sharp edge in the wickerwork of which the airship’s car was constructed had nicked his wrist quite painfully. He grunted, “But in fiction it’s usually much easier . . .”

  He worked on, sawing away with his bound hands, even though his wrists were slippery with blood. He was afraid that one of the airship’s crew would come into the cabin to look at the prisoners, but the four Esquelians in the control room at the forward end of the gondola seemed fully occupied with navigation and, presumably, the two who were aft were devoting all their time to the engine of the thing.

  Hell! That rope was tough—tougher than the edge against which he was rubbing it, tougher than his skin. Not being able to see what he was doing made it worse. He began to wonder if the first result that he would achieve would be the slitting of an artery. He had never heard of that happening to a fictional hero; but there has to be a first time for everything. Sonya whispered, very real concern in her voice, “John! You’re only hurting yourself! Stop it, before you do yourself some real damage!”

  “It’s dogged as does it!” he replied.

  “John! It’s not as though they’re going to kill us. We’re more value to them alive than dead!”

  “Could be,” he admitted. “But I’ve heard too many stories about samples from the bodies of kidnap victims being sent to their potential ransomers to speed up negotiations. Our furry friends strike me as being just the kind of businessmen who’d stoop to such a practice!”

  “After the way in which they slaughtered the crew of the steamboat,” put in Farrell, “I’m inclined to agree with the Commodore.”

  “The vote is two against one,” said Grimes. And then the rope parted.

  He brought his hands slowly round in front of him. There was a lamp in the cabin, a dim, incandescent bulb, and by its feeble light he could see that his wrists were in a mess. But the blood was dripping slowly, not spurting. He was in no immediate danger of bleeding to death. And he could work his fingers, although it seemed a long time before repeated flexings and wrigglings rendered them capable of use.

  He started on the rope about his ankles then. He muttered something about Chinese bowlines, Portuguese pig knots and unseamanlike bastards in general. He complained, “I can’t find an end to work on.” Then, with an attempt at humor, “Somebody must have cut it off!”

  “Talking of cutting . . .” Sonya’s voice had a sharp edge to it. “Talking of cutting, if you can get your paws on to the heel of one of my shoes . . .”

  Yes, of course, thought Grimes. Sonya was in uniform, and the uniform of a Survey Service officer contained quite a few concealed weapons. Sophisticated captors would soon have found these, but the Esquelians, to whom clothing was strange, had yet to learn the strange uses to which it could be put. Without overmuch contortion Grimes was able to get his hand around the heel of his wife’s left shoe. He twisted, pulled—and was armed with a short but useful knife. To slash through his remaining bonds was a matter of seconds.

  The Esquelian came through into the cabin from forward just as Grimes was getting shakily to his feet. He was wearing a belt, and from this belt depended a holster. He was quick ne
ither on the draw nor the uptake, but the Commodore was half crippled by impeded circulation to his ankles and feet. The native got his pistol—a clumsy revolver—out before Grimes was on him. He fired two shots, each of them too close for comfort, one of them almost parting the Commodore’s close-cropped hair.

  Grimes’s intention—he told himself afterward—had been to disable only, to disarm. It was unfortunate, perhaps, that the airship at that moment dived steeply. The Earthman plunged forward in a staggering run, the knife held before him, stabbing deep into the furry chest. The Esquelian screamed shrilly as a disgustingly warm fluid gushed from his body over Grimes’s hands, tumbled to the deck. As he fell, Grimes snatched the pistol. He was more at home with firearms than with bladed weapons.

  Surprisingly it fitted his hand as though made for him—but there is parallel evolution of artifacts as well as of life forms. Holding it, almost stumbling over the body of the dead native, Grimes continued his forward progress, coming into the control cabin. It was light in there, wide windows admitting the morning twilight. Gibbering, the three Esquelians deserted their controls. One of them had a pistol, the other two snatched knives from a handy rack. Grimes fired, coldly and deliberately. The one with the revolver was his first target, then the nearer of the knife wielders, then his mate. At this range, even with an unfamiliar weapon with a stiff action, a man who in his younger days had been a small arms specialist could hardly miss. Grimes did not, even though he had to shoot one of the airmen twice, even though the last convulsive stab of a broad-bladed knife missed his foot by a millimeter.

  He did not know whether or not the gun that he had been using was empty; he did not bother to check. Stooping, he quickly snatched up the one dropped by the dead pilot. It had never been fired. He turned, ran back into the cabin. He was just in time. One of the engineers was just about to bring a heavy spanner crashing down on Sonya’s head but was thrown back by the heavy slug that smashed his own skull.