Where was the queen?
He asked sharply, “Where is Queen Anne, Kane?”
Kane laughed. “Don’t get your knickers in a knot Grimes. She’s not dead. She’s . . . sleeping. So are her subjects. Meanwhile . . .” he gestured toward the four people who had followed them into the adobe building . . . “I’d like you to meet the leaders of the true Morrowvians. Mary Little . . .
The woman so named inclined her head and smiled shyly. She was wearing a shapeless blue coverall that hid her body to the neck but the way that she moved seemed human enough. Her teeth were very white and looked sharp. The hair of her head was obviously not the modified cat’s fur of the natives; it was much coarser and longer. It was brown, as were her eyes. Her face was, if anything, too normal, quite forgettable apart from the unusually thin-lipped mouth.
“Peter Pettifer,” continued Kane.
Pettifer was dressed as was Mary Little. He was yellow-haired, brown-eyed. He, too, had a peculiarly thin-lipped mouth.
“Dr. Kershaw you already know,” went on Southerly Buster’s master. “And this is Dr. Weldon . . .”
Weldon—short, tubby, black-haired, neatly black-bearded, dressed in gaudily patterned shirt and scarlet shorts—nodded curtly.
“Are you a lawyer too?” asked the Baroness.
“No, madam,” he told her. “My specialty is cryonics.”
Kane sat on the edge of the table, swinging his long legs. He said, “I’ll put you in picture, Ma’am. And you, Grimes. On the occasion of our first visit here—you in Seeker, that old woman Danzellan in Schnauzer an’ yours truly in the Buster—none of us dreamed that the true owners of the planet were stashed away here, in cold storage. There were other records left by Morrow, you know, besides the ones that you an’ Maggie what’s-her-name found in Ballarat. And I turned ‘em up. Oh, old Morrow played around with his cats—that I’ll not deny—but he also obtained fertilized human ova from Mary Little, Susan Pettifer, Delia James and Sarah Grant. These he brought to term, in vitro, in the laboratory that he set up here, in Stratford. But, as we all know too well, he was nuts on cats. Perhaps his infatuation with his pet creation, his Galatea, had something to do with it. He decided that Morrowvia would be a pussyocracy . . .” He grinned at his own play on words; nobody else was greatly amused. “He put the handful of true humans to sleep, stashed them away in the deep freeze so that they’d be available if ever he changed his mind. But they stayed there until I thawed ‘em out.”
“That’s your story, Kane,” said Grimes. “But I don’t believe it. To operate any refrigeration plant, even a cooler for your beer, you want power. If there were any wind or water-powered generators here we’d have seen ‘em when we came in. If there ever were any such jennies here they’d have worn out generations ago.”
“And the refrigeration machinery itself,” said the Baroness, showing a flicker of interest.
“Morrow set up an absorption system,” said Kane smugly. “And as for the energy source—there were solar power screens in Lode Cougar’s cargo. The people of the village that Morrow established here had it drummed into them, from the very start, that their sacred duty was to keep the screens clear of weeds and not to allow any larger growths capable of blocking out the sunlight to take root around their edges.”
Grimes remembered those unnatural looking slabs of gray, scintillant rock. He should have investigated them when he made his first rough survey of the planet. The Dog Star Line people should have investigated them when they made their surveys—but they, of course, were concerned primarily with exploitation, not the pursuit of knowledge. (And Drongo Kane, too, was an exploiter, and shrewd enough to know that any scrap of information whatsoever might, some day, be used to his advantage.)
Kane’s story, Grimes admitted reluctantly to himself, was plausible. An absorption refrigeration system, with no moving parts, could well remain in operation for centuries provided that there was no leakage. And the resurrectees did not appear to be of feline ancestry. Nonetheless he wished that photographs of the Lode Cougar survivors were available. He looked at Mary Little dubiously.
“Tell us your story, Mary,” prompted Kane.
The woman spoke. Her voice held an unpleasant whining quality. She said, “We are all very grateful to Captain Kane. He restored us to life; he will restore us to our proper place in the world. In the Old Days we were happy—but then the Others were favored by Dr. Morrow. And they hated us, and turned the Doctor against us . . .”
“Cats,” said Kane, “are very jealous animals. And now, ma’am, and you, Grimes, would you care to accompany me on a tour of the . . . er . . . freezer?”
“Thank you, Captain Kane,” said the Baroness.
“I want you both to see for yourselves,” said Kane, “that the people of Stratford have not been harmed but merely filed for future reference. They may be required as witnesses when my, er, clients bring suit against the cat people for restoration of the legal ownership of this planet.”
“How much is in it for you, Kane?” asked Grimes bluntly.
“Nobody works for nothing!” the Baroness told him sharply.
There were steep cliffs on the other side of the river from the village and it was atop these that the solar power screens were mounted. There were inflatable dinghies to ferry the party across the swift-flowing stream. The darkness was falling fast but powerful searchlights on the Stratford bank made the crossing as light as day. Four of The Far Traveler’s general purpose robots waded over with the humans, their heads at the deepest part just above the surface, accompanying the boats. (“Don’t you trust me, Grimes?” asked Kane in a pained voice. “No,” said Grimes.) The remaining two automata stayed to guard the pinnace.
On each side of the river there were jetties, very old structures of water-worn stone. Alongside one of these piers was a crude boat, little more than a coracle, consisting of the tough hide of some local beast stretched over a wickerwork frame. It must have been used, thought Grimes, by the maintenance workers who, over the long years, had kept the solar power screens free of vegetation.
Kane was first out of the leading dinghy, throwing a hitch of the painter around a wooden bollard. Gallantly he helped the Baroness from the boat to the low jetty. Grimes followed her ashore, then Kershaw. The other dinghy came alongside and Mary Little, Peter Pettifer and Dr. Weldon disembarked. The four robots emerged from the river, their golden bodies gleaming wetly.
Kane led the way to the base of the red granite cliff. Its face, although naturally rugged, seemed unbroken but the Master of Southerly Buster knew where the door was. From his pocket he produced a small piece of bright metal, placed it in a depression in the rock. There was a very faint whine of concealed machinery and a great slab of granite swung inward. The tunnel beyond it was adequately lit by glowtubes in the ceiling.
“However did Dr. Morrow manage such feats of construction?” asked the Baroness curiously.
“He had his work robots, ma’am,” replied Kane. “And this cave is a natural one.”
The party walked slowly along the tunnel, the feet of the robots ringing metallically on the stone floor. The air was chilly although not actually cold; nonetheless Grimes could see goose pimples on the backs of the Baroness’s shapely legs, long under the brief shorts, as she strode ahead of him, beside Kane.
Weldon, accompanying Grimes, said conversationally, “Of course, the refrigeration plant cannot produce extremely low temperatures—but Morrow had knowledge of and access to the drug that was popularly known as Permakeep in his day. Now, of course, we work with vastly improved versions—but even with Permakeep in its original form, temperatures only just below zero Celsius were all that were required to maintain the human body in a state of suspended animation almost indefinitely. A massive intravenous injection, of course . . .
“Fascinating,” said Grimes.
“Mine is a fascinating discipline,” admitted Weldon smugly.
They tramped on, into the heart of the cliff. The tunnel m
ade a right-angled turn into a large chamber, a huge cold room with transparent containers arranged in tiers. And there were the people who had been the citizens of Stratford, each in his own capsule, each frozen into immobility. They could have been dead; there was only Kane’s word for it that they were not
“Her Royal Highness,” announced the piratical shipmaster mockingly. “The Queen of Stratford.”
The unlucky Anne was in the first casket She was a comely enough woman, creamy skinned, with tortoiseshell hair. Like many of the other native Morrowvians she possessed pronounced rudimentary nipples under her full breasts. Her face still bore an expression of anger.
And there was living anger in this cold room too. Grimes heard a noise that was both snarl and growl. He turned, saw that Mary Little and Peter Pettifer were glaring at the frozen body, their thin lips pulled back from their sharp white teeth in vicious grins. Kane had heard them as well. He snapped, “Quiet, damn you! Quiet!”
“It is natural,” said Weldon suavely, “that they should hate the cat people after the way that they were treated. Would you like to be bossed around by a cat!”
No worse than being bossed around by a rich bitch, thought Grimes. “I suppose,” he said, “that if you hadn’t put Queen Anne and her people out of circulation they and your proteges would have led a cat and dog life.”
For some reason this rather feeble joke did not go down at all well with Kane, who said shortly, “I am responsible for the safety of those whom I awoke from what could well have been eternal sleep.”
“Tilt your halo to more of an angle, Kane,” said Grimes. “That way it might suit you better.”
“Captain Grimes,” the Baroness told him coldly, “that was uncalled for. I am sure that Captain Kane is acting for the best.”
“And you are satisfied, ma’am, that the people of Stratford are unharmed?” asked Kane.
“Yes,” she replied.
“We still don’t know that they aren’t dead,” persisted Grimes.
“Dr. Weldon,” said Kane, “please select a sleeper at random—better still, let Captain Grimes select one—and awaken him or her.”
“Captain Kane,” said the Baroness, “that will not be necessary. Please accept my apologies for my employee’s unfounded suspicions. But I am becoming increasingly aware that I am not attired for this temperature. Shall we return to the open air?”
“Your wish is my command, ma’am,” said Kane gallantly.
Outside the cave the light evening breeze was pleasantly warm. Whoever was in charge of the searchlights had elevated their beams so that they did not dazzle the party; enough light, however, was reflected from the cliff face to make it easy for them to find their way back to the river. Weldon and the two resurrectees were the first to embark, casting off in their inflatable dinghy. Weldon may have been extremely able in his own field but he was no waterman. Engrossed in steering a diagonal course to counter the swift current he did not notice the tree branch, torn from its parent trunk by a storm up river, that was being swept downstream. Both Kane and Grimes shouted a warning but he did not seem to hear it. The jagged end of the branch hit the side of the dinghy like a torpedo, ripping along its length. There was a great hissing and bubbling of escaping air. The flimsy craft tipped, all its buoyancy on the side of the damage lost. It capsized, throwing its occupants into the water.
There was very little danger. Weldon did not appear to be a good swimmer but two of the general purpose robots, running along the river bed, positioned themselves on either side of him, supported him on their out-held arms. Mary Little and Peter Pettifer struck out for the shore in a flurry of spray. It was a clumsy stroke that they were using, wasteful of energy, but in spite of their hampering clothing they made rapid progress. The two robots not engaged in assisting the cryoscopist to safety ran down the river in pursuit of the still-floating dinghy.
Then Weldon, dripping and miserable, flanked by his golden rescuers, stood on the stone pier waiting for Kane’s boat to come alongside. Mary Little and Peter Pettifer beat this dinghy to the shore, clambered up onto the jetty. They grinned and panted, shaking themselves. A fine spray of moisture flew from their wet clothing.
Kane made a competent job of berthing. As before, he helped the Baroness out of the dinghy. Kershaw and Grimes stepped ashore unaided.
The Baroness said, “My robots will recover the damaged boat, Captain Kane.”
“Thank you, ma’am. And your robots saved Dr. Weldon from a watery grave. I am indebted to you.”
“I would have managed,” said Weldon shortly.
Grimes ignored the conversation. He was watching Mary Little and Peter Pettifer, he was doing more than just watching. His nose wrinkled.
Kane and the Baroness walked slowly inshore from the jetty, deep in conversation. Grimes made to follow but was detained by Kershaw.
“Will you join us for a few drinks and a meal, Captain?” asked the lawyer.
Grimes accepted the invitation. He assumed that Kane and the Baroness would be present at this social occasion—but they were not. He was quite surprised when he felt a stab of jealously. Nonetheless, he thought, their absence might prove more advantageous than otherwise. With Kane not present his people would be less cautious in their conversation.
The talk over the quite civilized—but not up to The Far Traveler’s standards!—repast was interesting enough although, on both sides, guarded. Grimes did learn, however, that one of Kane’s party, Dr. Helena Waldheim, was a hypnoeducationist.
Chapter 31
Grimes did not overstay his welcome. Drongo Kane’s entourage were not his sort of people, neither was he theirs. There had been too much shop talk, little of it concerned with what was going on at Stratford. As far as Grimes was concerned the only really interesting professional gossip was that of fellow spacemen.
He made his way through the almost deserted village to The Far Traveler’s pinnace. He turned the robots to set up two pneumatic tents hard by the small craft, one for the Baroness and one for himself. While he was overseeing the work he was joined by that lady.
She asked, “What are you doing, Captain?”
He replied, “I don’t fancy sleeping in a house from which the rightful occupants have been evicted by force, Your Excellency.”
“They never were the rightful occupants,” she said.
“So Drongo Kane’s peddled you his line of goods,” he remarked. “Your Excellency.”
She actually flushed. “Captain Kane is a most remarkable man.”
“You can say that again!” Grimes told her. Then—“Can’t you see what he’s trying to do?” He made an appeal to her business acumen. “You, I well know, are a major shareholder in the Dog Star Line. If Kane, through his thawed-out figureheads, gains control of this planet it will do the Dog Star Line no good at all.”
She laughed. “And what if I become a major shareholder in Southerly Buster Enterprises?”
Grimes said, “I would advise strongly against it, Your Excellency.”
Again she laughed. “I hired you, Captain, as a yachtmaster, not as a financial adviser. After all—which of us is the multi-billionaire?”
Not me, that’s for sure, thought Grimes.
“So,” she went on, “you may sleep in that glorified soap bubble if you so desire. I shall find the accommodation arranged for me by Captain Kane far more comfortable. A very good night to you.”
She strode away toward the house which had once been Queen Anne’s palace. Two of her robots accompanied her. No harm would come to her, could come to her unless she wished it—and Grimes was not one of those who would regard a roll in the hay as harm, anyhow.
But why with Drongo Kane, of all people!
Eventually he turned in. There was nothing else to do. Nobody wanted him; he was just the hired help. He was settling down into the comfortable pneumatic bed when the door of the tent dilated and one of the golden robots came in. It (he?) stood there, looking down at Grimes. Grimes looked up at it.
The voice that issued from the automaton’s chest was not the mechanical monotone that Grimes had come to associate with these robots. The words were in Big Sister’s metallic but still feminine tones.
“Captain Grimes, may I have your report on what has been happening in Stratford?”
Grimes said, “Aren’t the robots your eyes and ears? And aren’t you supposed to be in contact with Her Excellency at all times through her personal radio?”
“Her Excellency,” said Big Sister, “can discontinue such contact at will. In certain circumstances she insists upon privacy. So it is that I am now obliged to work directly with you.”
“I happen,” said Grimes stiffly, “to be employed by Her Excellency.”
“And I,” Big Sister told him, “am owned by Her Excellency. Nonetheless she played no part in my initial programming. As you are probably already aware, entities such as myself are required by Interstellar Federation Law to have built-in respect for that same law and its processes. I would not have acted to rescue you from Commander Delamere’s ship on Botany Bay had I not considered that the commander had acted illegally. Also, of course, I am programmed to protect my owner.”
“She is her own woman,” Grimes said harshly.
Big Sister laughed. That crystalline tinkling was distinctly odd as it emanated from the expressionless, masculine even though asexual robot. She said, “I possess an extensive theoretical knowledge of sex. I do not think that Michelle will come to any harm from a brief affair with Captain Kane, any more than she would have done from one with you—which, frankly, I should have preferred . . .”
Grimes interrupted her. “But I don’t like it. A high-born aristocrat in bed with that . . . pirate . . .”
“Are you rushing to the defense of the hereditary aristocracy, Captain Grimes? You surprise me. And as for Captain Kane’s being a pirate, what of it? The founder of the d’Estang fortunes owned and commanded a privateer out of St. Malo during the Napoleonic Wars on Earth, and the dividing line between privateer and pirate was always a very thin one. Even so, I am concerned about the possibility of a financial liaison between Her Excellency and Captain Kane. She could come to harm through that. I have taken it upon myself to have all available information concerning Southerly Buster and her Master fed into my data bank.”
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