Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III

by A Bertram Chandler

  The doctor made straight for this and, with the ease of long practice, pushed the buttons for a treble whisky. Grimes picked up a plate and browsed. Was that caviar? It was. It probably had not come all the way from the Caspian Sea on Earth—from Atlantia? or New Maine?—but it was edible. And those things like thin, pallid worms weren’t at all bad . . . And neither was the pork fruit salad, although this was at its best only on, Caribbea, the world to which that strange organism, neither animal nor vegetable, was native.

  Munching happily, he watched a tall, slim Shaara princess indulging her taste for alcoholic sweetmeats. He had seen a party of Shaara at one of the roulette tables, doubtless she was of their number. He had always rather liked the bee people, still did—with reservations. (He would never forget what he had suffered at the hands—claws? talons?—of that Rogue Queen.) He said to her affably, “They don’t starve us here, Highness.”

  She turned to look at him with her huge, faceted eyes. The voice that came from the jewelled box strapped to her thorax was a pleasant soprano.

  “Indeed they do not, sir. And no matter what my Queen Captain may say or do, I believe in getting value for my money.”

  Her Queen Captain . . . So she must be one of the officers from the Shaara ship in port.

  “Are you on a cruise?” Grimes asked.

  “Yes.” If she had been endowed with a mouth instead of mandibles she would have smiled. “The ship is a hive with more queens than workers. And are you a spaceman, sir? You have the appearance.”

  “Yes, Highness. I am master of the little ship berthed between you and the TG wagon.”

  Her eyes glared at him like multiple lasers. “So your ship is Little Sister. So you are the man Grimes.”

  What had he said wrong?

  “You are Grimes. My hive sisters were the Queen Captain and her officers in the ship Baroom. We have heard only rumours of what happened but we believe that you destroyed that vessel.”

  After what they did to Tamara and myself, and to lots of other people, though Grimes, they had it coming to them.

  But he said nothing and she said nothing more. They stood there, glaring at each other, astronauts both, with much in common professionally but culturally a universe apart. (But was there such a difference? Terran adventurers, both before and after the dawn of the Space Age, have behaved as reprehensibly as did that Rogue Queen.)

  The princess turned her back to him and walked stiffly away, her iridescent wings quivering with rage.

  Grimes moved on, in the other direction. The acrimonious encounter had spoiled his appetite. He wandered through a door other than the one by which he had entered, found himself in a room full of game machines.

  ***

  He had always liked such contraptions.

  He liked to match wits with computers in simulated space battles but he looked in vain for such entertainment here. The names shining—some softly, some garishly—above the glowing screens made it obvious that the devices had been manufactured for use on New Venusberg, possibly had been made on the pleasure planet. LOVE MARATHON . . . WHIP THE LADY . . . CHAIN ME TIGHT . . . And in the screens themselves, although none of the machines was fully activated, there were hints of pale, sinuously writhing limbs, of rounded breasts and buttocks.

  CHASE ME AND . . .

  The broadly hinting label appealed to Grimes. To play the game, he discovered, would cost him only a single one credit coin. He went to a change maker, inserted a twenty credit bill into the slot. Silver coins rattled into the receptacle. But they were not coins, only tokens, each bearing on both sides Lady Luck’s stylised roulette wheel. Presumably they could be spent only in this establishment.

  Grimes pocketed all the metal discs but one, went back to the machine of his choice. There were no manual controls. There was a sort of padded hood into which he was to insert his head with eyepieces that looked into a replica of the overhead screen. This depicted only what looked like the back view of a naked woman regarded through a heavy mist. He withdrew, located the coin slot, inserted the token then put his head back into the hood.

  The screen came alive.

  There was a naked woman—slender, but not too much so—with her back to him. She was standing in a forest glade, her pale skin in vivid contrast to the dark foliage of trees and bushes. Grimes was naked too; he could feel the air cool on his skin, the grass damp under his feet. Suddenly this female whose face he had yet to see became the most desirable object in all the universe. He would creep up on her, throw her to the ground and . . .

  He must have made some slight, betraying noise.

  She turned her head, looked back at him over her smooth shoulder. Her face, framed by long, golden hair, was more than merely pretty, her eyes a wide, startled blue, her mouth a wide, scarlet gash. Her expression combined fear and invitation.

  She ran.

  Grimes ran.

  She was fast and Grimes, he realised, was badly out of condition. But those creamy buttocks, those long thighs, fantastically beautiful in motion, drew him like a powerful magnet.

  She ran.

  Grimes ran.

  He was gaining on her.

  He would catch her when she blundered into that bush with the great, purple blossoms.

  At the very last moment she changed direction, veering sharply to the right. Grimes was not able to check himself. The shrub, as well as blossoms, bore very sharp thorns.

  He extricated himself, cursing. He could feel the blood trickling down his lacerated skin. And she was standing there, legs apart, hands on hips, laughing.

  There was only one thing to do to her . . .

  But she evaded his clutching hands as she turned, running again, flitting between the trees like a pale wraith. He was after her, losing ground at first then gaining until he stumbled over a tree root; the pain in his bare foot was excruciating. She paused then, looking back, laughing again. Her teeth were very white against the scarlet of her lips.

  She let him almost reach her, then was off again.

  And they were out of the wood.

  Ahead there was low hill and on its summit there was a building—a temple? White, it was, with pillars, bright against the somehow ominous dark blue sky. Grimes knew that he must catch her before she reached this sanctuary.

  He would have done so had it not been for the swamp between hill and forest. She knew the path across it, leaping gracefully from grassy hummock to grassy hummock. He did not. He was knee-deep, thigh-deep in stinking ooze before he realised that he must keep to those patches of longer, darker grass, as she was doing.

  But she wanted to be caught.

  She waited for him on solid ground, laughing still, legs wide-spread, small, pink-nippled breasts provocative.

  She waited for him until he had almost gained solidity then turned again, running up the hill. Grimes pursued, his heart thudding, his lungs pumping. He actually got a hold on the long, golden hair floating behind her—and it came away in his hand. Beneath the wig was golden hair again, but short.

  She vanished into the colonnade.

  Stupidly Grimes stood there.

  Should he follow?

  Should he withdraw his head from the hood?

  Later he wished that he had done so at this juncture.

  They boiled out of the temple, the women, vicious, naked, sharp in tooth and claw. Jane Pentecost he recognised, and the Princess Marlene. There were Una Freeman and Maya, Mavis and Maggie Lazenby. And Michelle d’Estang and fat Susie. And the obnoxious Fenella Pruin as she had been when she derided him after his failure, and Tarnara Haverstock . . .

  He turned, pounded down the hill.

  He could hear them after him, their surprisingly heavy feet, their shrill, hateful screams. He reached the edge of the swamp. He made a leap to the first little hummock, landed on it, stood there teetering for long, long seconds before jumping for the next.

  He missed it.

  And they were on him.

  Their sharp teeth, their long fingernai
ls were tearing his skin and the flesh beneath it. Their discordant laughter was loud in his ears. There was screaming, too—and loudest of all was his own.

  The screen went blank, but he remained crouching there, his forehead pressed into the padding of the hood. His clothing was soaked in perspiration—and worse.

  The screen went blank—but the hateful female laughter persisted.

  Slowly he withdrew his head, looked around.

  Fenella Pruin was there, the embarrassed looking Port Captain by her side. With a visible effort she stopped laughing.

  “Grimes, Grimes . . . What an imagination you have! But do I really look like that in your eyes? A sort of nudist Dracula’s daughter?”

  “You watched in the monitor screen . . .” half asked, half stated Grimes.

  “Of course. It’s what it’s for, isn’t it?”

  “But you didn’t see . . . me . . .”

  “But we did, Grimes. We did—although you’re far better looking and far better endowed in your perverted imagination than you are in actuality. And we saw what happened to you. Proper bloody it was, too.” She turned to her escort. “Why don’t you see if you can do any better, Jock? Go on, be a sport. I’ll pay.”

  “No,” said the Port Captain. ‘No.”

  “Goodnight,” said Grimes.

  Acutely and miserably aware of the state of his clothing he turned away from them, slunk through the gambling halls and down to the subway station. He did not have long to wait for a car back to Port Aphrodite.

  The Customs guard at his airlock was far too cheerful.

  “You look like you’ve had a fine night on the tiles, Captain!” he laughed.

  “It was interesting,” said Grimes shortly as he retreated into his own little sanctuary.

  Chapter 5

  HE STRIPPED OFF HIS SOILED CLOTHING, had a long, hot shower. Cleansed, he was beginning to feel better. And hungry. He went into the little galley and assembled a thick, multitiered sandwich, opened a can of cold beer. He carried these refreshments to his part of the main cabin, put them down on the deck by his bunk. He stretched out and then, his body disposed like that of an ancient Roman banqueter, munched and gulped. He almost finished the sandwich but was suddenly asleep before all the beer was gone.

  He dreamed, re-enacting the game—but this time he caught the girl before she reached the temple. This time her hair did not come away in his hand. He turned her around, threw her to the ground, fell heavily upon her. His right knee prised her thighs apart. He . . .

  The loud ringing of a bell jerked him back to reality.

  Action Stations!

  Then he realised where he was and that the noise was being made by somebody seeking admission to Little Sister. He got out of his bunk, reached for and shrugged into a light robe. The bell went on ringing, in short, irritable bursts.

  He went aft to the airlock, operated the local controls. Prunella Fenn stood there, glaring at him. “You keep a tight ship,” she snarled sardonically. “Are you afraid that the wild, wild women will come and get you?” She brushed past him, looked down at the remnants of his supper. “Didn’t I hear somewhere that your Survey Service nickname was Gutsy Grimes?” She stooped to pick up the can of now-flat beer, sniffed it disdainfully. “I could do with a drink myself—but not this gnat’s, piss. Fix me one, will you? A large brandy on one, small rock.”

  “I wasn’t expecting you back,” said Grimes.

  “Surely you weren’t expecting me to spend all night with that fat, boring slob? But the drink, Grimes. Now.”

  He went to the galley, poured a generous measure of brandy over one ice cube. She snatched it from him without thanks.

  He said, “I’ll rig the privacy screen.”

  “Don’t bother,” she told him. “I want to talk.”

  She gulped from her glass, put it down on the table and started to undress. There was nothing at all sensual about the display, not the merest hint of invitation. There were bruises, Grimes noted clinically, on the pale skin of her upper thighs. She saw what he was looking at, laughed shortly.

  “There are times when a girl has to suffer to get a story. Or to get a lead . . .”

  She picked up the glass again, sat down on her bed, facing him.

  She said, “I think that I shall be able to blow the lid off two very unsavoury rackets. Soon I shall have the makings of a couple or three stories that will have readers and viewers all over the galaxy literally drooling. There’s white slavery—that’s been a sure seller for centuries. The others are even better . . .”

  “Better?” echoed Grimes.

  “You can bet your boots it is. Why do you think that the Shaara come here?”

  “For the gambling?” hazarded Grimes.

  “More than that. You told me yourself that the Shaara—or some of them—are voyeurs.”

  “Nothing especially sensational in that. You’re a voyeur yourself. You watched what was happening to me in that damned machine.”

  “But that wasn’t for real, was it? Anyhow, you should know what the Shaara are capable of. Didn’t you and that postmistress wench have a rough time when you were prisoners of that Rogue Queen? The Shaara like to humiliate, torture even, other intelligent beings—but such practices are frowned upon on their own planets. Here they can indulge their vices. Money—enough money—can buy anything.”

  “I can’t quite believe that even on New Venusberg human beings could make a profit from allowing their fellow men and women to be tortured.”

  “Grow up, Grimes! I’ve heard that you’re something of an amateur historian—so you should know the extent of the evil of which humanity is capable. But you spacemen, for all your phoney machismo, lead very sheltered lives, know almost nothing about the real universe. There’s a lot more to it than the clean, empty spaces between the stars!

  “Anyhow, this commercialised sadism ties in with the white slave racket. Innocent little bitches—yes, and innocent little puppies—recruited on backward planets (and some not so backward) and brought here to make their fortunes (they think!) on fabulous Venusberg. An old friend of yours, Drongo Kane, is in the business up to his eyebrows . . .”

  “That bastard!” growled Grimes.

  “Jock told me that one of the ships Kane owns—Willy Willy—is due in shortly from a world called New Alice . . . I sort of gained the impression that he wasn’t supposed to talk about it—but you know what men are like. When they’re trying to make a girl they tend to boast, to show how big they are, how important. But there’s only one way of being big that counts.”

  “Mphm.”

  “Where is New Alice? What sort of world is it?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “You’re the expert. Or supposed to be. You were hired as such.”

  “I still haven’t a clue,” growled Grimes. He got up from his bunk and padded to the playmaster, set the controls so that it was hooked up to the memory bank of the ship’s computer. He hit the question mark symbol on the keyboard, then typed NEW ALICE.

  The reply appeared in glowing letters in the screen: NO DATA.

  Fenella Pruin laughed. “That thing is as useless as you are.”

  Grimes’ prominent ears flushed angrily. He said, “This memory bank, especially insofar as navigational data is concerned, is as good as anything in a battleship.”

  “So you say.” She yawned, not bothering to hide her gaping mouth with her hand. “Another drink, then I’ll be ready for a spot of shut-eye. And don’t you come mauling me. I’ve had enough of that for one night.”

  He refilled her glass. She downed its contents in one gulp; some of the amber spirit dribbled down her chin and on to her breasts. Grimes felt no desire to lick it off. She stretched out on her bunk, not bothering to cover herself. Grimes stretched out on his, operated the switch at its head that dimmed the cabin lights.

  She went to sleep almost at once, snoring not unmusically.

  He found it hard to get off again. Two names kept flashing before
his mind’s eye like an advertising sign: DRONGO KANE. NEW ALICE.

  He already knew far too much about Kane—but where the hell was New Alice?

  Chapter 6

  EVEN AFTER A LATE and disturbed night Grimes was inclined to be an early riser. He did not always greet the dawn with a song, however; this was such a non-choral occasion. He ungummed his eyelids, looked up blearily at the golden deckhead. He had omitted to close various doors before retiring and the morning sunlight was streaming through the control cab viewports, was reflected from burnished metal. He groaned softly. He slowly pushed the bed cover down from his body, swung his feet to the deck. He looked across to Fenella Pruin’s bunk. She was still sleeping, her right forearm covering her eyes and most of her face. The rest of her was uncovered. If Grimes had been feeling stronger he would have been sexually stirred by the sight of her naked body, as it was he felt only disgust. In her sluttish posture, with the dark bruises on the skin of her inner thighs, she looked used. And used, moreover, by that fat slob of a Port Captain.

  He padded aft to the little galley, switched on the coffee maker. After a second or so he was able to draw a steaming mug of the dark fluid. He added sugar, stirred. He sipped cautiously. He felt a little stronger. He allowed the coffee to cool slightly, then gulped and swallowed.

  “Must you make that disgusting noise at this jesusless hour?”

  He looked around. Fenella Pruin was sitting up in her bed, glaring at him.

  “And you might put something on,” she added. “Your hairy arse isn’t the sort of sight that I like to wake up to.”

  Grimes muttered something about pots and kettles.

  She ignored this. “And what’s that you’re drinking? Don’t you ever stop stuffing yourself?”

  “Coffee.”

  “Why didn’t you say so before? Well, you can bring me some. With cream. And sugar. You know how I like it.”

  Grimes did know. More than once during the voyage from Bronsonia he had wondered if he were owner-master or cabin steward; the Pruin had been determined to get her—or her employer’s—money’s worth. He made coffee to her requirements, brought it to her. As he handed her the mug he was strongly tempted to slop some of the scalding fluid over her uncovered breasts. She snatched it from him ungraciously and a few drops were spattered on to her stomach.