To the Galactic Rim: The John Grimes Saga

by A Bertram Chandler

  “Very funny, Lieutenant.” She stared at the screen. “Is that officer wearing Skandian uniform?”

  “Of course, Madam,” replied the Skandian Captain, who seemed to be very quick on the uptake. “Captain Olaf Andersen, at your service.” He smiled happily. “And you, if I am not mistaken, are Mrs. Commissioner Dalwood, of the Federation’s Board of Admiralty. According to our latest Intelligence reports you are en route to Dhartana.” He smiled again. “Delete ‘are.’ Substitute ‘were.’”

  “Mr. Grimes, I forbid you to accept a tow from that vessel.”

  “Mrs. Dalwood, as commanding officer of this ship I must do all I can to ensure her safety, and that of her people.”

  “Mr. Slovotny, you will put through a call to Lindisfarne Base at once, demanding immediate assistance.”

  Slovotny looked appealingly at Grimes. Grimes nodded glumly. The grinning face of the Skandian faded from the screen, was replaced by a swirl of color as the pilot antenna swung away from its target. Sound came from the speaker—but it was a loud warbling note only. The radio officer worked desperately at the controls of the Carlotti transceiver. Then he looked up and announced, “They’re jamming our signals; they have some very sophisticated equipment, and they’re only light minutes distant.”

  “Are you sure you can’t get through?” demanded the Commissioner.

  “Quite sure,” Slovotny told her definitely.

  She snorted, turned to Hollister. “Mr. Hollister, I’ll have to rely on you.”

  “What about your own chrome-plated telepath?” Grimes asked her nastily.

  She glared at him. “John’s transmission and reception is only relatively short range. And he can’t work with an organic amplifier, as your Mr. Hollister can.”

  “And my organic amplifier’s on the blink,” said Hollister.

  “What do you mean?” demanded Grimes.

  The telepath explained patiently. “There has to be a . . . relationship between a psionic communications officer and his amplifier. The amplifier, of course, is a living dog’s brain . . .”

  “I know, I know,” the Commissioner snapped. “Get on with it.”

  Hollister would not be hurried. “The relationship is that which exists between a kind master and a faithful dog—but deeper, much deeper. Normally we carry our own, personal amplifiers with us, from ship to ship, but mine died recently, and so I inherited Mr. Deane’s. I have been working hard, ever since I joined this ship, to win its trust, its affection. I was making headway, but I was unable to give it the feeling of security it needed when the temporal precession field of the Drive started to fluctuate. The experience can be terrifying enough to a human being who knows what is happening; it is even more terrifying to a dog. And so . . .”

  “And so?” demanded the woman.

  “And so the amplifier is useless, possibly permanently.” He added brightly, “But I can get in touch with Princess Helga any time you want.”

  “You needn’t bother,” she snarled. Then, to Grimes, “Of all the ships in the Survey Service, why did I have to travel in this one?”

  Why? echoed Grimes silently. Why?

  Even the Commissioner was obliged to give Captain Andersen and his crew full marks for spacemanship. Princess Helga emerged into normal space-time only feet from the drifting Adder. At one moment there was nothing beyond the courier’s viewports but the blackness of interstellar space, the bright, distant stars—at the next moment she was there, a vague outline at first, but solidifying rapidly. She hung there, a great spindle of gleaming plastic and metal, the sleekness of her lines marred by turrets and antennae. Another second—and the shape of her was obscured by the tough pneumatic fenders that inflated with almost explosive rapidity. Another second—and Adder’s people heard and felt the thump of the magnetic grapnels as they made contact.

  Andersen’s pleasant, slightly accented voice came from the transceiver. “I have you, Captain. Stand by for acceleration. Stand by for resumption of Mannschenn Drive.”

  “I suppose that your temporal precession field will cover us?” asked Grimes.

  “Of course. In any case there is physical contact between your ship and mine.”

  “Where are you taking us?” demanded Mrs. Dalwood.

  “To Kobenhaven, of course, Madam. Our Base on Skandia.”

  “I insist that you tow us to the nearest spaceport under Federation jurisdiction.”

  “You insist, Madam?” Grimes, looking at the screen, could see that Andersen was really enjoying himself. As long as somebody was . . . “I’m sorry, but I have my orders.”

  “This is piracy!” she flared.

  “Piracy, Madam? The captain of your ship requested a tow, and a tow is what he’s getting. Beggars can’t be choosers. In any case, Space Law makes it quite plain that the choice of destination is up to the officer commanding the vessel towing, not the captain of the vessel towed.”

  She said, almost pleading but not quite, “In these circumstances the Federation could be generous.”

  Andersen lost his smile. He said, “I am a Skandian, Madam. My loyalty is to my own planet, my own Service. Stand by for acceleration.”

  The screen went blank. Acceleration pushed the group in Adder’s control room down into their chairs; Mrs. Dalwood was able to reach a spare seat just in time. Faintly, the vibration transmitted along the tow wires, they heard and felt the irregular throbbing of Princess Helga’s inertial drive—and almost coincidentally there was the brief period of temporal-spatial disorientation as the field of the cruiser’s Mannschenn Drive encompassed both ships.

  “You realize what this means to your career,” said the Commissioner harshly.

  “What was that?” asked Grimes. He had been trying to work out how it was that Princess Helga had been able to start up her inertial drive before the interstellar drive, how it was that there had been no prior lining up on a target star.

  “You realize what this means to your career,” repeated the woman.

  “I haven’t got one,” said Grimes. “Not any longer.”

  And somehow it didn’t matter.

  The voyage to Kobenhaven was not a pleasant one.

  The Commissioner made no attempt to conceal her feelings insofar as Grimes was concerned. Rosaleen, he knew, was on his side—but what could a mere lady’s maid do to help him? She could have done quite a lot to make him less miserable, but her mistress made sure that there were no opportunities. The officers remained loyal—but not too loyal. They had their own careers to think about. As long as Grimes was captain they were obliged to take his orders, and the Commissioner knew it as well as they did. Oddly enough it was only Hollister, the newcomer, the misfit, who showed any sympathy. But he knew, more than any of the others, what had been going on, what was going on in Grimes’s mind.

  At last the two ships broke out into normal space-time just clear of Skandia’s Van Allens. This Andersen, Grimes admitted glumly to himself, was a navigator and shiphandler of no mean order. He said as much into the transceiver. The little image of the Skandian captain in the screen grinned out at him cheerfully. “Just the normal standards of the Royal Skandian Navy, Captain. I’m casting you off, now. I’ll follow you in. Home on the Kobenhaven Base beacon.” He grinned again. “And don’t try anything.”

  “What can I try?” countered Grimes, with a grin of his own.

  “I don’t know. But I’ve heard about you, Lieutenant Grimes. You have the reputation of being able to wriggle out of anything.”

  “I’m afraid I’m losing my reputation, Captain.” Grimes, through the viewports, watched the magnetic grapnels withdrawn into their recesses in Princess Helga’s hull. Then, simultaneously, both he and Andersen applied lateral thrust. As the vessel surged apart the fenders were deflated, sucked back into their sockets.

  Adder, obedient to her captain’s will, commenced her descent towards the white and gold, green and blue sphere that was Skandia. She handled well, as well as Grimes had ever known her to do. But this was
probably the last time that he would be handling this ship, any ship. The Commissioner would see to that. He shrugged. Well, he would make the most of it, would try to enjoy it. He saw that Beadle and von Tannenbaum and Slovotny were looking at him apprehensively. He laughed. He could guess what they were thinking. “Don’t worry,” he told them. “I’ve no intention of going out in a blaze of glory. And now, Sparks, do you think you could lock on to that beacon for me?”

  “Ay, Captain,” Slovotny replied. And then, blushing absurdly, “It’s a damn shame, sir.”

  “It will all come right in the end,” said Grimes with a conviction that he did not feel. He shrugged again. At least that cast-iron bitch and her tin boyfriends weren’t in Control to ruin the bitter-sweetness of what, all too probably, would be his last pilotage.

  Adder fell straight and true, plunging into the atmosphere, countering every crosswind with just the right application of lateral thrust. Below her continents and seas expanded, features—rivers, forests, mountains, and cities—showed with increasing clarity.

  And there was the spaceport, and there was the triangle of brilliant red winking lights in the center of which Grimes was to land his ship. He brought her down fast—and saw apprehension dawning again on the faces of his officers. He brought her down fast—and then, at almost the last possible second, fed the power into his inertial drive unit. She shuddered and hung there, scant inches above the concrete of the apron. And then the irregular throbbing slowed, and stopped, and Adder was down, with barely a complaint from the shock absorbers.

  “Finished with engines,” said Grimes quietly.

  He looked out of the ports at the soldiers who had surrounded the ship.

  “Are we under arrest, Captain?” asked von Tannenbaum.

  “Just a guard of honor for the Commissioner,” said Grimes tiredly.

  Grimes’s remark was not intended to be taken seriously—but it wasn’t too far from the mark. The soldiers were, actually, members of the Royal Bodyguard and they did, eventually, escort Mrs. Commissioner Dalwood to the Palace. But that was not until after the King himself had been received aboard Adder with all due courtesy, or such courtesy as could be mustered by Grimes and his officers after a hasty reading of Dealings With Foreign Dignitaries; General Instructions. Grimes, of course, could have appealed to the Commissioner for advice; she moved in diplomatic circles and he did not. He could have appealed to her. He thought, As long as I’m Captain of this ship I’ll stand on my own two feet. Luckily the Port Authorities had given him warning that His Skandian Majesty would be making a personal call on board.

  He was a big young man, this King Eric, heavily muscled, with ice-blue eyes, a flowing yellow moustache, long, wavy yellow hair. Over baggy white trousers that were thrust into boots of unpolished leather he wore a short-sleeved shirt of gleaming chain mail. On his head was a horned helmet. He carried a short battle-axe. The officers with him—with the exception of Captain Andersen, whose own ship was now down—were similarly uniformed, although the horns of their helmets were shorter, their ceremonial axes smaller. Andersen was in conventional enough space captain’s dress rig.

  Grimes’s little day cabin was uncomfortably crowded. There was the King, with three of his high officers. There was Andersen. There was (of course) the Commissioner, and she had brought her faithful robot, John, with her. Only King Eric and Mrs. Dalwood were seated.

  John, Grimes admitted, had his uses. He mixed and served drinks like a stage butler. He passed around cigarettes, cigarillos, and cigars. And Mrs. Dalwood had her uses. Grimes was not used to dealing with royalty, with human royalty, but she was. Her manner, as she spoke to the King, was kind but firm. Without being disrespectful she managed to convey the impression that she ranked with, but slightly above, the great-grandson of a piratical tramp skipper. At first Grimes feared (hoped) that one of those ceremonial but sharp axes would be brought into play—but, oddly enough, King Eric seemed to be enjoying the situation.

  “So you see, Your Majesty,” said the Commissioner, “that it is imperative that I resume my journey to Dhartana as soon as possible. I realize that this vessel will be delayed for some time until the necessary repairs have been effected, so I wonder if I could charter one of your ships.” She added, “I have the necessary authority.”

  Eric blew silky fronds of moustache away from his thick lips. “We do not question that, Madam Commissioner. But you must realize that We take no action without due consultation with Our advisors. Furthermore . . .” he looked like a small boy screwing up his courage before being saucy to the schoolteacher . . . “We do not feel obliged to go out of Our way to render assistance to your Federation.”

  “The Princess Ingaret incident was rather unfortunate, Your Majesty . . .” admitted Mrs. Dalwood sweetly. “But I never thought that the Skandians were the sort of people to bear grudges . . .”

  “I . . .” he corrected himself hastily . . . “We are not, Madam Commissioner. But a Monarch, these days, is servant to as well as leader of his people . . .”

  Grimes saw the generals, or whatever they were, exchanging ironical glances with Captain Andersen.

  “But, Your Majesty, it is to our common benefit that friendly relations between Skandia and the Federation be re-established.”

  Friendly relations? thought Grimes. She looks as though she wants to take him to bed. And he knows it.

  “Let me suggest, Madam Commissioner, that you do me—Us—the honor of becoming Our guest? At the Palace you will be able to meet the Council of Earls as soon as it can be convened. I have no doubt—We have no doubt that such a conference will be to the lasting benefit of both Our realms.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty. We are . . .” She saw Grimes looking at her sardonically and actually blushed. “I am honored.”

  “It should not be necessary for you to bring your aides, or your own servants,” said King Eric.

  “I shall bring John and James,” she told him. “They are my robot servitors.”

  Eric, whose face had fallen, looked cheerful again. “Then We shall see that all is ready for you.” He turned to one of his own officers. “General, please inform the Marshal of the Household that Madam Commissioner Dalwood is to be Our guest.”

  The general raised his wrist transceiver to his bearded lips, passed on the instructions.

  “John,” ordered the Commissioner, “tell Miss Rosaleen and James to pack for me. Miss Rosaleen will know what I shall require.”

  “Yes, Madam,” replied the robot, standing there. He was not in telepathic communication with his metal brother—but UHF radio was as good.

  “Oh, Your Majesty . . .”

  “Yes, Madam Commissioner?”

  “What arrangements are being made for Lieutenant Grimes and his officers, and for my lady’s maid? Presumably this ship will be under repair shortly, and they will be unable to live aboard.”

  “Mrs. Dalwood!” Grimes did not try very hard to keep his rising resentment from showing. “May I remind you that I am captain of Adder? And may I remind you that Regulations insist that there must be a duty officer aboard at all times in foreign ports?”

  “And may I remind you, Mr. Grimes, that an Admiral of the Fleet or a civilian officer of the Board of Admiralty with equivalent rank can order the suspension of any or all of the Regulations? Furthermore, as such a civilian officer, I know that nothing aboard your ship, armament, propulsive units or communications equipment, is on the Secret List. You need not fear that our hosts’ technicians will learn anything at all to their advantage.” She added, too sweetly, “Of course, you might learn from them . . .”

  King Eric laughed gustily. “And that is why We must insist, Lieutenant, that neither you nor your officers are aboard while repairs are in progress. Captain Andersen, please make arrangements for the accommodation of the Terran officers.”

  “Ay, Your Majesty,” replied Andersen smartly. He looked at Grimes and said without words, I’m sorry, spaceman, but that’s the way it has to be.
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  Grimes and his officers were housed in the Base’s Bachelor Officers’ Quarters, and Rosaleen was accommodated in the barracks where the female petty officers lived. They weren’t prisoners—quite. They were guests—but strictly supervised guests. They were not allowed near their own ship—and that hurt. They were not allowed near any of the ships—in addition to Princess Helga and Adder there were three destroyers, a transport and two tugs in port. Captain Andersen, who seemed to have been given the job of looking after them, was apologetic.

  “But I have to remember that you’re spacemen, Lieutenant. And I have to remember that you have the reputation of being a somewhat unconventional spaceman, with considerable initiative.” He laughed shortly. “I shudder to think what would happen if you and your boys flew the coop in any of the wagons—yours or ours—that are berthed around the place.”

  Grimes sipped moodily from his beer—he and the Captain were having a drink and chat in the well-appointed wardroom of the B.O.Q. He said, “There’s not much chance of our doing that, sir. You must remember that the Commissioner is my passenger, and that I am responsible for her. I could not possibly leave without her.”

  “Much as you dislike her,” grinned the other. “I think that she is quite capable of looking after herself.”

  “I know that she is, Captain. Even so . . .”

  “If you’re thinking of rescuing her . . .” said Andersen.

  “I’m not,” Grimes told him. He had seen the Palace from the outside, a grim, grey pile that looked as though it had been transported, through space and time, from Shakespeare’s Elsinore. But there was nothing archaic about its defenses, and it was patrolled by well-armed guards who looked at least as tough as the Federation’s Marines. He went on, almost incuriously, “I suppose that she’s being well treated.”

  “I have heard that His Majesty is most hospitable.”

  “Mphm. Well, we certainly can’t complain, apart from a certain lack of freedom. Mind you, Mr. Beadle is whining a bit. He finds your local wenches a bit too robust for his taste. He prefers small brunettes to great, strapping blondes . . . But your people have certainly put on some good parties for us. And Rosaleen was telling me that she’s really enjoying herself—the P.O.s’ mess serves all the fattening things she loves with every meal.”