Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III

by A Bertram Chandler

  “Mphm,” grunted Grimes noncommitally.

  ***

  Grimes demanded money.

  Fenella Pruin asked, “What for? For an arbalest lesson? Your Survey Service gunnery courses can’t have cost all that much!”

  “I may want to grease a palm or two,” he said.

  She looked at him. She said slowly, “I think I can guess why. But I’m not asking. I don’t want to know anything about it. I refuse to accept responsibility for any illegality of which you may be guilty.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Grimes, “as master I cannot do likewise as far as you are concerned.”

  “Here’s your money,” she said, concluding the conversation. She peeled notes of large denominations off the large roll that she produced from her bag.

  Grimes counted what she gave him. It should be enough, more than enough. He left the camperfly, walked in the late-afternoon sunlight to the lodge.

  ***

  He found his way to the practice range with no trouble. Apart from the attendant on duty, a young lady got up to conform to somebody’s idea of what a well dressed Amazon should wear—leather straps, brass buckles, an extremely short kilt of some transparent material—the practice range was deserted. She looked at Grimes and smiled invitingly.

  “Archery instruction, sir? Or . . .”

  “Archery instruction, please.”

  The smile faded slightly.

  “Longbow or arbalest, sir?”

  “Arbalest, please.”

  “Have you used such a weapon before?”

  “No.”

  “In that case, sir, you will require the stimulator if you are to acquire a modicum of skill in the minimum time. It was programmed by Hiroshi Hayashi, for many years the undisputed crossbow champion of all Venusberg.” She added, after a slight pause, “There will be an extra charge, of course.”

  “Of course,” agreed Grimes.

  He was led to a long counter of polished wood. Beyond this, at a distance of about forty meters, was a large target with a bullseye and concentric rings. From under the bar the girl produced a crossbow, put the end of it on the floor and one slim foot into the stirrup, grasped the wire bowstring with both hands—it was suitably padded in the two places necessary—and pulled. There was a click as the sear engaged. She lifted the weapon, put it back on the counter and then inserted a steel quarrel into the slot. Then, with the butt of the arbalest set firmly on her right shoulder, she took casual aim and pulled the trigger. The bowstring twanged musically and the target thudded as the metal bolt sank deep into the bullseye.

  It all looked very easy.

  “And now you, sir. Cock, load and fire.”

  It had all looked very easy when she did it but Grimes was amazed at the effort required to bend those steel arms. He was red in the face and perspiring when finally the thing was cocked. He loaded. He brought the butt to his shoulder. The weapon was too heavy and the balance was all wrong. He tried to steady the primitive sights on to the target but could not hold the crossbow steady. He pulled the trigger at last when his foresight flickered across the bullseye. He missed, of course, not even putting the quarrel on to the quite large target.

  The girl tsked sympathetically. She brought from its under the counter stowage a featureless helmet of some light metal. She set it firmly on Grimes’ head.

  “Now, sir, cock, load and fire.”

  It had all looked very easy when she did it. It was surprisingly easy when he did it—this time. It was as though something—somebody—had control of his brain, was telling his muscles exactly what they should do. (This stimulator, he thought, must use a very similar technique to that employed by that obscene game machine in Lady Luck’s games machines room.) He pulled up the bowspring until it engaged with an amazing lack of effort. He raised the arbalest to his shoulder, sighted carelessly, fired. He was well on the target this time although missing the bullseye by a few millimeters. He cocked, reloaded, fired again. A bull. Cock, reload, fire . . . Another bull. And another. Dislodged quarrels fell to the stone floor with a clatter.

  This was not, thought Grimes, the quickfiring weapon that a longbow was. Even with his induced skills reloading took too much time.

  He asked, “Could I learn to use a longbow the same way?”

  “Yes, sir. But it takes much longer. You, obviously, are accustomed to handling projectile firearms employing a chemical propellant. This technique is merely enhancing the skills that you already possess . . .”

  And a crossbow, thought Grimes, would be easier to fire from the open door of an aircraft. He would stay with it.

  At the girl’s suggestion he switched to moving targets, two dimensional representations of animals that had to be Terran deer, their ancestral stock no doubt imported from Earth. These ran rapidly from left to right, from right to left, bobbed up suddenly.

  He scored well after a shaky start.

  She said, “You will bring back game from tomorrow’s hunt, sir.”

  “I shan’t be at tomorrow’s hunt.”

  “The day after, perhaps . . . I must warn you that unless you practice continuously the induced skills fade.”

  “Could I take two of these arbalests back to my camperfly so that I and my companion can get in some practice?”

  “It is not allowed, sir. Our weapons may be used only under strict supervision.”

  “You must have occasional outworld tourists,” suggested Grimes, “who want to keep these beautiful crossbows as souvenirs . . .”

  “They are expensive,” said the girl bluntly. At least she wasn’t wasting time by being coy.

  “How much?” asked Grimes, equally bluntly.

  “Five hundred credits each. And I must warn you that if you are seen carrying one anywhere but within the bounds of a camp such as this you will be liable to arrest and prosecution. And if you say that you bought it you will not be believed. We have an understanding with the police forces. You will be charged with theft as well as carrying an unauthorised weapon.”

  “You’re certainly frank,” said Grimes, looking at the girl not without approval. He had his notecase out, was checking its contents. “Now I’m going to be frank. I haven’t enough on me to pay for the arbalests and the tuition. And my . . . er . . . friend keeps very tight pursestrings . . .” He tried to look like a gigolo. “Perhaps . . .”

  “How much have you got?”

  “One thousand, five hundred and seventy five . . .”

  She grinned. “Near enough.”

  He should have tried to beat her down, thought Grimes. But it wasn’t his money. It wasn’t even Fenella Pruin’s money. The Bronson Star could well afford it.

  Shortly thereafter, with the dissembled arbalests and a supply of quarrels in a carrying case that the girl had thrown in with the purchase, he made his way through the warm dusk to the camperfly.

  Fenella Pruin, although reluctantly approving this acquisition of weaponry, was not at all pleased when he insisted that she learn how to cock and load a crossbow.

  These were not quick-firing weapons—but if things came to a crunch they would have to do.

  Chapter 11

  THE NEXT MORNING, after a light breakfast that Grimes prepared from the camperfly’s consumable stores, they lifted from Camp Diana. A bored duty officer in the control tower asked them where they were bound and was told that they were just cruising. (On most worlds they would have been obliged to submit a flight plan before departure but New Venusberg concerned itself only about the ability of tourists to pay for their pleasure.) The flight controller told them to have a happy day. Grimes thanked him—and wondered if the day would be a happy one. He hoped that it would be.

  He flew with the rising sun broad on the starboard bow, its brilliance reduced to a tolerable level by the self-polarising glass of the cockpit canopy. Dazzle was cut down but so, inevitably, was visibility. But he was sure that attack, if there were to be an attack, would come from out of the sun.

  It did.

 
At first the Shaara blimp was no more than a sunspot, but a rapidly expanding one. Grimes put the controls on automatic, said to Fenella Pruin, “This is it. Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” she said. “But I forbid you to open fire unless they start dropping things again . . .”

  “They’ll have spent the night,” Grimes told her, “gathering big stones with sharp edges.”

  “You don’t know . . .”

  “I don’t know—but would you like to bet that they haven’t?”

  She made no reply and he began to remove the nuts—which he had already loosened to hand tightness only—holding the rear panel of the canopy in place. Unfortunately there was no room for the segment of curved glass inside the cockpit but Grimes had foreseen this, had ready some light but very strong line that, passed through the bolt holes of the removed panel and those in an adjacent one, held it more or less securely. The thing tended to flap in the wind of the camperfly’s passage; if the cord frayed through it would be just too bad.

  Meanwhile the blimp was no longer a sunspot; it was eclipsing the sun. The Shaara were on a collision course but Grimes was sure that they would lift before there was actual contact. They did so, and by this time Grimes was half way out of the bubble canopy and on to the smooth, resilient top of the gas cell that covered the fuselage. He held one of the arbalests, already cocked and loaded, ready for action. The other one Fenella Pruin would pass to him as soon as he needed it.

  He edged out to starboard, putting a cautious foot on to the root of the stubby wing on that side. He withdrew hastily, back to the protection of the canopy. Even at the camperfly’s low air speed there was too much wind; he would never be able to take steady aim and, furthermore, would run the serious risk of losing his balance and falling. It was a long way down and the terrain over which they were now flying was rocky. (Even had it been soft sand he would never have survived such a plunge.)

  So he would have to follow the Pruin’s orders (but what right had she to order him!) after all. He would not be able to open fire until fired upon. His missiles going up would pass the Shaara missiles coming down.

  The blimp had reduced speed as it gained altitude and then, to Grimes’ surprise, sheered off to port.

  “You’ve gone to all this trouble for nothing,” sneered Fenella Pruin. “They aren’t going to attack us. Why should they? And how am I going to justify the purchase of these two bloody crossbows to my paper?”

  “Wait!” snapped Grimes.

  The blimp was astern of them now, but it was turning. It was coming up on them slowly, on the same course as themselves but higher. When the Shaara started dropping things they would have to make very little allowance for deflection. Their tactics were ideal assuming that the bombing target was unarmed. Grimes hastily put the arbalest behind his back. If they saw the glint of metal they would suspect that he had a weapon of some kind.

  The camperfly flew on steadily.

  The blimp crept up on it.

  It would be, thought Grimes, just within the extreme range of his arbalest. But was that bloody Fenella Pruin telepathic?

  “Wait!” she ordered sharply. “Let them make the first move!”

  “It may be the last as far as we’re concerned,” he replied but kept the crossbow concealed.

  The fat nose of the blimp was directly above the camperfly’s stubby tail. Sunlight was reflected dazzlingly from the jewels worn by the princesses and drones in the car, from their faceted eyes. They must be wondering what Grimes was doing standing out on the fuselage. They would soon find out.

  The obese airship slowly overflew the chubby hybrid aircraft. The car was coming directly overhead. Grimes saw spindly, arthropoidal limbs, holding things, extending outward from the gondola. The first missiles were released. He did not watch their descent but whipped the arbalest up from behind his back and fired, aiming for the rear of the car where the engine driving the pusher airscrew was situated. He missed, but the quarrel drove into and through the envelope. He heard, behind him, at least one rock crashing on to the cockpit canopy, felt the camperfly lurch dangerously as others hit the wings. But there was no time to assess damage. He passed the discharged arbalest back to Fenella Pruin, grabbed the loaded one that she put into his hand. He brought the butt to his shoulder and fired just as another shower of big stones came down. The blimp was still within range; it should not have been, that first act of jettison should have sent it climbing almost like a rocket.

  Grimes realised why as his second bolt sped towards its intended target. The first one must have hit some weak spot, a juncture of gas cells. Tattered fabric flapped about a widening rent in the envelope. The airship was dropping by the stem. Unless Grimes took avoiding action, and fast, it would fall on to the camperfly.

  Fantastically the hybrid aircraft was looking after itself. It swung around to starboard at the same time as it heeled over in that direction and the sinking blimp dropped slowly astern of it, just missing its tail. Grimes realised almost at once the reason for the alteration of course; the gas cell in the starboard wing had been holed and the automatic pilot had been, unable to cope with the change in trim. And Grimes himself would be unable to cope until matters of far greater urgency had been resolved.

  Two of the Shaara, a princess and a drone, had bailed out from their crippled vehicle. They were making for the almost as crippled camperfly. Grimes did not have to be psychic to know that they were in a bad temper. Probably they were unarmed but they would be able to inflict considerable damage with their sharp talons.

  He retreated inside the canopy.

  Fenella Pruin was still struggling to reload the first arbalest. He snatched it from her and, the training session not yet faded from his mind, cocked the thing without difficulty. He watched the two Shaara, their wings an iridescent blue, flying in. There was not sufficient slipstream from the slow camperfly seriously to interfere with their landing. Using all their limbs they scuttled forward to where Grimes, crossbow in hand, awaited them. They came erect on their rear legs before they reach him.

  The princess said, her voice from the artificial speech box strapped to her thorax viciously strident, “You have a weapon. On this world it is not legal.”

  “Neither is dropping rocks on people,” Grimes told her.

  “You broke the law. We are entitled to protect ourselves against lawbreakers.”

  “Try it!” he said, levelling the arbalest.

  But would he dare to use it? So far action had been taken, by both sides, against ships only. Intentions and results had been damage to property, not to life and limb. If he killed the princess or the drone, or both of them, the other Shaara would lay formal complaint to the Venusberg authorities and then Grimes would be in the cactus. The Shaara pulled more Gs on this world than he did. He did not know what the penalty was for the crime of murder but he did not doubt that it would be extremely unpleasant.

  Yet without the weapon he would be no match for the multi-limbed, sharp clawed arthropod. Perhaps (he hoped) the threat of its use would be sufficient to deter the Shaara from unarmed attack.

  They approached him slowly, meanacingly, their clawed feet clinging to the taut fabric of the upper fuselage gas cell. Grimes’ finger tightened on the trigger of the arbalest.

  Behind him something hissed loudly.

  A stream of white foam shot over his shoulder, played over the head of the princess and then over that of her companion, blinding them. Fortuitously the camperfly lurched heavily at this moment. The princess screeched wordlessly, lost her balance and fell overside. She was in no danger; her wings opened at once and she was airborne but flying aimlessly, all sense of direction lost. The drone still stood there, trying to clear the viscous foam from his eyes. Grimes took a cautious step aft towards him, pushed hard with the crossbow held in his right hand. The drone staggered but the claws of his feet retained their grip. Grimes jabbed again, and again. He was afraid of injuring the male Shaara but was anxious to be rid of him.

  Then a met
al cylinder, thrown with force and accuracy from somewhere behind him, struck the drone on the thorax. He staggered, lost his footing, fell to join his aimlessly flying mistress.

  Grimes turned cautiously to make his way back to the control cab. Fenella Pruin was standing in the opening made by the removed panel, grinning happily.

  “If they can dump used food containers and the like,” she said, “I can dump used fire extinguishers.”

  “If they complain,” he said, “we’re still in trouble.”

  “Nobody was killed,” she told him. “That wouldn’t have been so if you’d used the crossbow.”

  Grimes reluctantly agreed with her and then went to the pilot’s seat to try to bring the camperfly back under control.

  ***

  He was obliged to valve gas from the port wing to compensate for the loss of lift from the starboard one. The camperfly was still airworthy but with the reduction of buoyancy there was a corresponding reduction of speed. The necessary calculations would have to wait, however, until the canopy panel was replaced. Grimes felt much happier when the control cab was once again completely enclosed, affording protection against an incursion of vengeful Shaara.

  The cockpit resealed, he took his place at the controls, studied the chart on the desk before him.

  He said, “We’ll make Camp Persephone all right, although a bit later than intended. There are sure to be repair facilities there and a supply of helium. We’ll get the starboard wing patched up and both wing gas cells refilled.”

  “How will you account for the hole in the starboard wing?”

  He grinned at her. “I’m just a spaceman. You’re the writer. Use your imagination.”

  She grinned back. “I’ll just soft pedal the truth a little. We happened to be flying directly under a Shaara blimp when, quite by chance, the thing dumped ballast. We don’t want to have to lay any charges. The less the law knows about our activities here, the better.”

  To tell the truth, although not necessarily the whole truth, is usually safer than to tell a lie.