“You clumsy oaf!” she snarled.
He did not feel obliged to apologise. He left her mopping her belly with the bed cover and went to the minuscule bathroom. After he had showered and depilated and all the rest of it he-walked back to his side of the main cabin, ignoring the way in which she glowered at him. He took a brightly patterned civilian shirt from its hanger in his locker, hesitated between a pair of orange shorts and a kilt in the astronauts’ tartan, gold, blue and silver on black. He decided on the shorts; he was never really happy in a kilt.
“A sight for sore eyes,” she remarked sourly. “You’re making mine sore. Going some place?”
“Probably. Do you want breakfast?”
“Two four minute hen’s eggs, with buttered toast. Orange juice. Coffee.”
There was no please.
“We’re out of fresh eggs but the autochef can do you scrambled eggs or an omelette.”
“Why are we out of fresh eggs?”
“Because I haven’t ordered any stores yet.”
“Why not? In my girlish innocence I assumed that the service in a chartered spaceship would be slightly superior to that in an Epsilon Class tramp.”
“If your friend the Port Captain and the others hadn’t been underfoot all day yesterday . . .”
“If you hadn’t made such a pig of yourself every breakfast time there’d have been some eggs left.”
The bells rang. Somebody was outside the ship seeking admission.
“See who it is!” she snapped.
Grimes went to the airlock, opened both doors. The Port Captain was there. His face was still florid but it was an unhealthy looking flush. His gorgeous uniform looked sleazy. More than ever he looked like the doorman of a brothel rather than a spaceman.
“Morning,” he grunted. “Miss Fenn on board?”
“Where else, Captain McKillick? But come aboard. This is Liberty Hall, you can spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard.”
“You can’t come aboard until I’m presentable,” called Fenella Pruin.
“Miss Fenn’s not dressed yet,” said Grimes.
“That doesn’t worry me,” said the Port Captain, managing a faint leer. “I don’t suppose that it worries you either.”
“It doesn’t,” said Grimes.
“You can say that again!” came the voice from within Little Sister. “Whoever perpetuates that myth about big, strong, virile spacemen wouldn’t know if a big black dog was up him!”
Grimes’ prominent ears reddened, the Port Captain superimposed an angry flush on his normally ruddy complexion. (After all he was—or had been—a spaceman himself.)
But he said, “I like a woman with a little fire in her.”
“Mphm,” grunted Grimes.
“Last night for example . . .”
“Mphm?”
“Never kiss and tell, eh, Captain? I can take a hint. But that dance she did at the Kathouse put the professionals to shame. In fact Katie told her that she’d give her a job if she ever wanted one. It was the business with the bottle and the two wine glasses that really impressed her, though . . .”
Grimes’ active imagination treated him to a series of lubricious mind pictures.
“When you’ve quite finished gossiping like a couple of old women you can come in,” called Fenella Pruin.
***
Not only had she made herself presentable but had actually tidied up the main cabin. Inflatable chairs were set around the collapsible table, on which stood the golden coffee pot and its accessories. She was wearing an ankle length dress of patterned spidersilk, grey on grey, under which it ‘was obvious that she was naked. From the neck down there was nothing at all wrong with her.
“Good morning, Jock,” she said with spurious sweetness. “Coffee?”
“Thank you, Prue.”
“Breakfast?” asked Grimes, whose belly was rumbling.
“I’ve had mine. Such as it was.”
“Well, I’m having mine. Miss Fenn?”
“You mentioned omelets earlier . . . Something savoury if your autochef can manage it.”
Grimes went into the galley to initiate the process of cookery. He could overhear the conversation.
“Last night—or early this morning—I asked Captain Grimes about that world you told me about. New Alice. He didn’t know a thing, of course. Nor did his computer.”
The Port Captain laughed. “Hardly surprising. It’s one of Drongo Kane’s secrets. My guess is that it’s a Lost Colony that he’s keeping to himself.”
“A fine, profitable source of slave labour. Or white slave labour.”
“Not that, Prue. The girls are paid. They aren’t slaves.”
“But they are exploited. I noticed last night that they were in great demand. Of course some men would find those oddly shaped legs of theirs very attractive . . . Do you suppose that they’re mutants? Like those wenches from Heffner with two pairs of breasts . . .”
“Just a stroll down mammary lane,” said Grimes, bringing in the omelets.
“Ha,” said Fenella Pruin. “Ha, bloody ha! I am rolling on the deck in paroxysms of uncontrolled mirth.”
“Ha,” growled Grimes. “Ha, bloody ha.”
“Give me my breakfast and stop the bloody clowning.”
“Actually,” said the Port Captain, adopting the role of peacemaker, “it was rather neat. Mammary lane, I mean. Our genes or chromosomes or whatever—I’m only a spaceman, not a biologist—must hold the memories of all the stages of evolution through which we, as a race, have passed . . .”
“Thanks for the mammary,” said Grimes.
“You get on my tits,” snarled the Pruin.
“But these females with the odd legs,” Grimes persisted, “what sort of hair do they have?”
“Just hair,” the Port Captain told him. “Reddish brown mostly, in the usual places.”
“Mphm.” Grimes admitted that he had been adding two and two to make five. He had been more than half way to the assumption that there was no such world as New Alice, that Drongo Kane was recruiting on Morrowvia. But the description of the exotic wenches in Katy’s Kathouse didn’t fit. Morrowvian women were perfectly formed, although their hair was like a cat’s fur and could be any of the feline colourations, even to tortoiseshell.
Meanwhile Fenella Pruin had wolfed her omelet. She got to her feet, saying, “I’m ready for the road, Jock. Oh, Grimes, fix your front door so that it lets me in. I’m not sure what time I shall be back.”
“I have to record your voice pattern.”
“Then do it.”
After she had spoken into the microphone she said to Grimes, “Why don’t you have a look at Katy’s Kathouse? You seemed interested enough.”
Somehow it was more of an order than a suggestion. She was sniffing out something, something that stank, and he was appointed apprentice bloodhound.
Chapter 7
IT WAS TOO EARLY IN THE DAY, he thought, to go cathouse crawling. Surely there must be some way of occupying the time on this planet during daylight hours. There was a pile of brochures on board, left by the boarding party; neither he nor Fenella Pruin had gotten around to studying these. He found them under her bunk. He leafed through them. Most of them advertised after-dark attractions but a few catered for those not sleeping off the previous night’s debauchery.
New Bali Beach . . .?
It looked promising. His wardrobe did not include swimming trunks but, if the photographs of the seaside resort were to be believed, such attire would not be necessary. But money would be. Those waterside cafes, with beautiful, naked people sitting under gaily coloured umbrellas sipping their long drinks and nibbling their exotic foods, looked extremely expensive. Most of the advance monies given to him by The Bronson Star had gone to pay his outstanding debts on Bronsonia. Fenella Pruin had plenty of money with her—there was a huge wad of currency in Little Sister’s safe—but there would be a most distressing scene if he helped himself to a small loan. She would have to give him som
e sooner or later; if she wanted him to assist her in her muckraking she would have to pay his expenses. But he doubted if she would be willing to treat him to a day at the seaside.
He decided to take his lunch with him.
In the galley he constructed a pile of thick sandwiches; the ham that he had purchased back on Bronsonia wasn’t at all bad and there was a cheese with character. He decanted chilled wine into an insulated flask. He put the food and the drink into a shoulder bag.
He decided to call the Port Doctor before leaving the ship, got through without trouble on Little Sister’s NST radio to the spaceport switchboard. An attractive redhead told him that Dr. MacLaren was free and would take his call. Then MacLaren scowled at him from the little screen.
“Oh, it’s you, Captain Grimes. Where the hell did you get to last night?”
“I couldn’t find you, so I went back to the ship.”
“You didn’t look very hard. And I needed you, man. A combination of your beginner’s luck and my system and we’d have cleaned up. As it was . . .”
“Mphm.”
“Well, what can I do for you?”
“I was thinking of going out to New Bali for the day.”
“I’m not stopping you.”
“I thought that you might know something about the place.”
“I went there once and didn’t like it. Is that all?”
So the Good Doctor, thought Grimes, was blaming him for his previous night’s losses. Subsidised by Grimes, he would be convinced, he would have been able to ride out the bad run and would have won a fortune on the ensuing good one. It was just too bad—but Grimes still had most of his money in his pocket.
“I’ll be seeing you,” said Grimes, terminating the conversation.
He left the ship, exchanged a few words with the bored Customs guard, then walked to the subway station. There were few signs of life about the spaceport. The liners, like huge, lazy beasts, were drowsing in the warm sunlight and somnolence would also be the order of the day inside the great, shining hulls. Grimes felt virtuous.
In bright daylight the entrance to the station looked very tawdry. That tawdriness was somehow passed on to the advertisements on either side of the escalator and on the platform. He found one that was not a depiction of fleshly delights but a map of the railway system. He discovered that he would have to take a Number 9 car.
He did not have long to wait for it. He was the only passenger. He reflected that there was one great advantage of public transport; nobody had to worry about whether or not it was making a profit. To pass the time on the journey he read the paper that he had obtained from the automatic dispenser, a neatly folded packet of news sheets. It should have been free; there were far more advertisements than news items.
Spaceman-like, he turned first to the shipping information. He noted that Little Sister, Captain John Grimes, Far Traveller Couriers, with passengers, was in port. Passengers? He supposed that “passenger” would have looked rather absurd. And Broorooroo, Queen-Captain Shrim, Shaara Interstellar Transport, was in. And Taiping, Trans-Galactic Clippers, Captain Pavel. And . . .
But who was due?
Delta Geminorum, Captain Yamamoto, Interstellar Transport Commission, passengers and general cargo. Empress of Scotia, Captain Sir Hector Macdonald, Waverley Royal Mail, cruise. Rim Wyvern, Captain Engels, Rim Runners, bulk fluids.
And Willy Willy, Captain Dreeble, Able Enterprises, passengers.
So . . .
He turned to the social columns.
He learned that the charming Miss Prunella Fenn, of Bronsonia, was being escorted around the night spots by Port Captain Jock McKillick and that Queen-Commissioner Thrum, from Shreell, was still enjoying her holiday on New Venusberg. The photograph of Fenella Pruin made her look almost beautiful.
There was a crossword puzzle. The answer to every clue was either obscene or anatomical or both. Grimes, who was fond of word games, was able to solve it without too much mental strain. After all, that ancient Nilotic peasant with his Spanish uncle engaged in non-productive intercourse was obvious enough . . .
The car arrived at his station. He disembarked. There was the usual platform with the usual advertising, the usual escalator.
He emerged on to a wide promenade, paved with some veined, polished stone. Landward were buildings, shops mainly, few higher than one storey, their wide windows agleam with the merchandise on display. Further inland was a tower—a hotel?—that was a huge and unashamed phallic symbol. On the other side of the wide walkway was the beach—dazzling white sand, gaudy sun umbrellas, sprawling human and humanoid bodies ranging in colour from pink to the darkest brown. It was all very nice but it was nothing like Bali as he remembered that island, even though the trees that cast their shade over the walk were not dissimilar to Terran palms.
He stood there for a few moments taking his bearings. He watched a trio approaching him. There was a man, ugily obese, with his skin burned to an ugly pink, naked save for the straps of the cameras and recorders slung about his torso. There were two girls, tall, slim brunettes, each clothed in golden tan, with golden chains about their waists, with golden anklets and bracelets, with jewels gleaming between their breasts, in their navels and in their pubic hair. Before they reached him they turned to look into the window of a jeweller’s shop. They went inside. Grimes wondered how the tourist was going to pay for more ornaments for his mercenary girlfriends, came to the conclusion that one of those camera cases must really be a money pouch.
More naked pedestrians passed him. The outworlders were easy to spot, even though some of them, male and female, were quite well made. They, apart from their cameras and money pouches, were . . . naked. Although splendidly nude the local boys and girls were all dressed up like Christmas trees.
He walked across the promenade. Next to the wide steps down to the beach was one of those expensive looking cafés. There was a showcase outside with representations—wax or plastic?—of the various edibles and potables on sale, together with prices. Grimes congratulated himself on his foresight; having brought his lunch with him he would not have to beggar himself by paying a minor monarch’s ransom for a ham sandwich. But he did hire a beach umbrella. The price he paid for a few hours’ use of the thing could have purchased at least two similar articles on most worlds. He kicked off his sandals, picked them up and walked towards the sea. Some of the supine or prone ladies turned their heads to follow his progress but soon lost interest. Perhaps, he thought, there had been some mutation on New Venusberg resulting in X-ray vision so that these wenches could ascertain at a glance how much money was in his slim wallet . . .
A few meters from the water’s edge he drove the ferrule of his umbrella into the sand then opened it. He stripped, enjoying the feel of the sunlight on his bare skin; as he always made daily use of Little Sister’s ultra violet lamp there would be no risk of sunburn. Putting his shoulder bag and clothing in the shade of the parasol he walked down to the sea. There was almost no wind and the incoming waves were mere ripples. He waded out until he was chest-deep and then let himself fall forward. He struck out with arms and legs, but lazily, making deliberately slow progress through the slightly too warm water. He turned so that he was swimming parallel to the shore so that he could keep an eye on his possessions. He did not think that there was any danger of theft but it would be rather embarrassing if he were obliged to return to his ship naked and penniless.
He began to feel thirsty.
He waded out from the sea, back to the bright umbrella. He opened his bag, took out the insulated flask. The wine was delicious. He unwrapped a sandwich. That was good too. He noticed that people around him were looking at him disdainfully—the elegant, bejewelled girls who had already made assessment of his comparative poverty, the muscular, deeply tanned, well endowed young men. He heard them talking to the tourists whom they were with, the plump matrons and the pot-bellied males. He heard laughter that had a derisive edge to it.
Fuck ’em, he thought. There was
no law that said that he must spend his hard-earned money on this clip joint of a planet. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then, to compound the deliberate coarseness, the back of his hand on his right buttock. He stretched out on his back, using his bag for a pillow. After smoking a soothing pipe he surrendered himself to the drowsy warmth, slid into unconsciousness.
***
He was not asleep for long.
He was awakened by a steady droning noise coming from overhead. He opened his eyes, looked up. It was a party of Shaara flying over the beach, two princesses and three drones, their wings an iridescent blur in the sunlight. One of them swooped low, her huge-faceted eyes staring down at Grimes. Then the party veered inland, making a descent at the beachside cafe.
“Even they can afford to buy a drink,” Grimes heard one of the girls in his vicinity say to her portly male companion. The tourist muttered in reply that spacebums should be confined to their ships.
Fuck ’em, thought Grimes again.
He was just dozing off when the Shaara came back over him. He woke up with an unpleasant start when the soft containers that had held some sticky, sickly smelling confection, that were no more than three quarters empty, spattered down on to his naked body.
He scrambled to his feet, cursing. He would have thrown something at the retreating Shaara if they had not been already out of range. He glared around at the grinning faces of the other sunbathers. Then, with what dignity he could muster, he walked into the sea to wash off the slimy mess.
When he came out of the water a darkly tanned, heavily muscled young man, naked save for a white brassard with BP in black, carrying a shoulder bag, strode up to him. He pointed sternly to the scum on the surface of the water, the shreds of plastic, and demanded, “Did you do that?”
Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III Page 32