Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III

by A Bertram Chandler

  “I’m doing it,” she told him. “Now. I want to help you, Mal. You and your people . . .”

  “You can help by bringin’ in some firewood.”

  “You can help—yourself as well as us—by telling us how to get back to Port Aphrodite.”

  “You must be round the bend.”

  “I’m not. I have friends in Port Aphrodite. John Grimes has a ship there. Get us there and we’ll be able to lift the lid off this planet.”

  “An’ what good will it do us?”

  “Plenty, I assure you. You’ll be repatriated to your own world, if you so desire . . .”

  “Rather stay here. I’m somebody here. A chief.”

  “But wouldn’t you like to be recognised as such by the New Venusberg government? With rights, definite legal rights, for you and your people? Look at the money you could make from tourists, money that you could spend on little luxuries . . . Decent beer instead of the muck you brew yourselves from the Odd Gods of the Galaxy alone know what . . .”

  “Nothin’ wrong with our beer . . .”

  But Mal, Grimes knew, had promptly commandeered the remaining bottles of Venuswasser from the wreck of the camperfly.

  “An’ there’ll be women, Mal. Tourist women . . .”

  “You’re too skinny,” he told her.

  “Maybe I am. But before you were too old to perform in the house where you worked you must have enjoyed all the foreign pussy.”

  “I’m not too old!” he roared. “If you weren’t such a bag o’ bones I’d soon show yer! I was caught on the nest with the boss’s wife—that’s why I’m out here!”

  “I never really thought that you were too old,” said Fenella Pruin placatingly. She had moved so that she was between the morning sun and the chief, so that the strong light revealed the outlines of her body under the single, flimsy garment.

  “Too bloody skinny,” muttered Mal. “No bloody thanks!”

  “Skinny perhaps,” she said. “But rich certainly. Help us and I’ll pay.”

  “What with?” he asked sceptically.

  “I’ve money, plenty of money in the safe aboard Captain Grimes’ ship.”

  “But it ain’t here.”

  “I’ll make out a promissory note . . .”

  “There’s only one thing that such a piece of paper would be any use for here.”

  “My word is good,” she said. “And I have a name, a famous name . . .”

  “Not to me it ain’t.”

  Grimes was aware that Darleen was tugging at his sleeve. She had something to say to him, in private. He followed her into the bushes. Shirl accompanied them.

  As soon as they were concealed from view, out of hearing from Mal and Fenella, she opened the shoulder bag that she was carrying, extracted a purse. It was very well filled, with notes of large denominations. So was the purse produced by Shirl. Evidently the dead women whose personal effects the New Alicians had appropriated had not believed in credit cards.

  Grimes counted the money. It came to twelve thousand, three hundred and fifteen Federation Credits.

  “You take it,” said Darleen. “On our world women do not handle business.”

  Grimes stuffed the notes into his sporran, walked back to where Mal and Fenella were still arguing.

  “How much do you want to help us?” he asked bluntly.

  Mal looked at him. “I was wonderin’ why the hell you were lettin’ this skinny bitch do all the dickerin’. How much have yer got?”

  “How much do you want? A thousand?”

  “Fifteen hundred. For you. But the tribe could do with three new women.” He laughed nastily. “The ones we’ve got wear out pretty soon.”

  “The woman . . .” He corrected himself when he saw the way that Shirl and Darleen were looking at him. “The women come with me.”

  “That will cost yer, mister.”

  “Then an extra five hundred for each woman.”

  Mal spat. “Surely they’re worth more to you than that. There’s years o’ wear in each of them.”

  “This is degrading!” flared Fenella Pruin.

  “Isn’t it?” agreed Grimes. “But keep out of this, will you?” Then, to Mal, “They aren’t worth more than six hundred apiece.”

  “She ain’t. All she’s good for is collectin’ firewood. But the other two sheilahs . . . Good breeders, by the looks of ’em. An’ they’re from my world. They’re Matilda’s Children, like me. So they’ll be hunters. They’ll be able to pull their weight.”

  “Six hundred for her, then . . .”

  “You bastard!” snarled Fenella.

  “Shut up! And a thousand each for the other two.”

  “Two thousand each.”

  Until now Grimes had been enjoying the chaffering. Now he was annoyed. “You mean,” he demanded, “that they’re worth more than me?”

  “Too bloody right, mate. I need a spaceman in this camp like I need a hole in the head.”

  “Fifteen hundred each.”

  “No go. Two thousand. Cash on the nail and no bits of useless bumfodder.”

  Oh, well, thought Grimes, it wasn’t his money. He said, “I have to talk this over, Mal.”

  “Don’t take too long or I’ll up the price.”

  Back in the bushes, with Fenella, Darleen and Shirl watching, he counted out the money. He had not wanted Mal to know how much was in his pouch. Six thousand, one hundred credits exactly; it was just as well that there was no need to ask Mal to make change.

  The chief took the notes, made his own count.

  “All right,” he said. “You’ve sealed the bargain. You can loaf around all day, an’ then ternight, when Cap’n Onslow comes by in his Triton, I’ll get yer on board. He owes me a coupla favours.”

  Chapter 26

  IT HAD BEEN TOO EASY, thought Grimes. So far. He said as much to the women. Fenella said that it had been easy because he had been throwing money around like a drunken spaceman. Shirl said that Mal would not have been so keen to help had not two of his own people been involved. Fenella said that good money had been paid out but, at the moment there was only the vague promise of assistance. Darleen said that a New Alician’s word was his bond. Fenella said, changing the subject slightly, that it was indeed strange that Mal was willing to get rid of his fellow Matilda’s Children. Shirl said that the chief had set a far higher value on herself and Darleen than on Fenella.

  Before the catfight got out of control Grimes steered the discussion on to what he hoped would be a safe track. He said, “The two of you were still yapping around the fire after Fenella and I turned in last night. What did you find out?”

  “Kangaroo Valley ain’t entirely cut off from the world,” said Darleen. “It’s left alone because it’s useful. There’s a sorta lizard livin’ in rocky places. It ain’t good eatin’—but there’s some demand for parts of its guts. Have ter be dried in the sun, then roasted, then ground into a sorta powder . . . It sells at fancy prices in the cities . . .”

  “What’s it used for?” asked Grimes stupidly.

  “What would anything be used for on this world? Mal doesn’t sell it all, o’ course. He keeps some for his own use. For all his big talk he’s gettin’ old, over the hill. He wanted us, last night. Both of us. An’ he knew that he could only manage one with the amount of juice that he has in his batteries at his age. So he charged himself up . . .”

  “An’ the worst of it was,” said Shirl, “that after he was quite finished he wouldn’t let us sleep on the cushions in his humpy but bundled us off to get what rest we could on a bed o’ leaves . . .”

  “He’s a jealous bastard, that Mal,” went on Darleen. “He thought that you’d been havin’ it off with us an’ didn’t want you bustin’ in and interferin’. But if the stuff is mixed in drink—like beer—an’ if the mug is shared by two people—like you an’ Fenella did once last night—it’s supposed to work for that couple only . . .”

  Grimes looked at Fenella.

  She looked at him.
<
br />   She said coldly, “So that’s why you were capable last night.”

  He thought, So that’s why you weren’t your usual bitchy self.

  He said, “That stuff must be pricey.”

  “Even wholesale it’s not all that cheap,” she agreed.

  “Then why is this camp so primitive?”

  “Mal likes it that way. Matilda’s Children like it that way.”

  “What happens to the money?” persisted Grimes.

  “It’s banked. It builds up. Then, every year, there’s a lottery. The winner gets a passage back home, to New Alice.”

  “And yet,” said Fenella Pruin, “Able Enterprises never seem to have any trouble in getting new recruits for the brothels—and worse—of this planet. Surely those lucky winners spread the word about how things really are on New Venusberg . . .”

  “I met one,” said Shirl, “just before I came out here. The lying bitch! New Venusberg, according to her, was the original get-rich-quick-in-luxury planet. Ha!”

  “Do you think that she was in Drongo Kane’s pay?” asked Grimes.

  “Not necessarily,” said Fenella Pruin. “A thorough brain-scrubbing, then artificial memories . . .”

  “But that’s not legal,” said Grimes.

  “Some of the things that happened to us weren’t legal. But they happened just the same. The only crime here is not having enough money to be able to break interstellar law with impunity. So . . . But what else did you two find out during your night of unbridled passion?”

  Shirl and Darleen gave her almost identical dirty looks.

  “Mal didn’t want us for talking to,” said Shirl. “But after he threw us out we slept in a big humpy with two of his wives. They wanted to spend what was left of the night nattering. They told us what a hard life it was catchin’ the lizards, an’ gutting an’ all the rest of it, an’ how the only thing to look forward to was Cap’n Onslow comin’ in to collect the . . . the . . .”

  “Aphrodisiac,” supplied Fenella.

  “Yair. He always brings some decent beer an’ some tins o’ food, luxury items, like. He’s from some world where the people have a thing about ships—the sort of ships that sail on the sea, I mean . . .”

  “Atlantia?” asked Grimes. “Aquarius?”

  “Aquarius. I think. He was a shipowner there, an’ a captain. He sold out, came here for a holiday. He decided to stay after he found out that a little ship, with no crew to pay, could make a living sniffing around little settlements like this, pickin’ up little parcels of cargo . . .”

  “Sounds like a good life,” said Grimes.

  “You should know,” said Fenella. “But perhaps he doesn’t have the same uncanny genius for getting into trouble that you have.”

  “From here,” Shirl went on, “he sails direct for Troy—that’s a seaport just south of New Bali Beach. It’s not all that far from Port Aphrodite.”

  “And then it’s only a short tube ride back to my own ship,” said Grimes.

  “You hope,” said Fenella Pruin. “We all hope. But first of all we must hope that this Onslow person will agree to carry us to Troy.”

  Chapter 27

  LATE IN THE AFTERNOON, just before sunset, Triton came up river. She was a smart little ship, gleaming white with a blue ribbon around her sleek hull. Her foredeck, abaft the raised fo’c’s’le, was one long hatch served by two cranes, one forward and one aft. Her high poop seemed to be mainly accommodation. Atop the wheel house were antennae and the radar scanner, also a stubby mast from which flew Captain Onslow’s houseflag, a golden trident on a sea-green ground. From the ensign staff fluttered the New Venusberg banner—the crux ansata, in gold, on crimson.

  Grimes expected that she would be anchoring in the stream as Kangaroo Valley was devoid of wharfage. But she did not. With helm hard over she turned smartly through ninety degrees, ran up on to the beach. She moved smoothly over the sand until only the extremity of her stern was in the water. Then she stopped. From the port side of her poop a treaded ramp extended itself, the lower end of this resting on the ground.

  There was movement in Triton’s wheelhouse as whoever was there left the control position. Shortly afterwards a short, solidly built man appeared at the head of the gangway, walked decisively down it. He was bare-footed and clad, somewhat incongruously, in a garishly patterned sarong and a uniform cap, the peak of which was lavishly gold-encrusted. He was brown-skinned, red-bearded.

  He greeted Mal, who was standing there to meet him, “Hello, you old marsupial bastard! How yer goin’?”

  “I am not a marsupial, Cap’n Onslow,” said Mal stiffly, obviously not for the first time.

  “There’re marsupials in yer family tree, Mal . . .”

  “Kangaroos don’t climb, Cap’n.”

  Then what was an old-established ritual was broken. Onslow stared at Fenella who, with Grimes and Darleen and Shirl, was standing a little apart from the villagers. She was clothed, while all the other women were naked—but even if she had not been her differences from them would have been obvious.

  “Hello, hello,” said Onslow slowly, “who’s this?” Then, “Don’t I know you, lady?”

  “You may have seen my photograph, Captain,” Fenella told him.

  “M’m. Yes. Could be. But where?”

  Another Faithful Reader, thought Grimes.

  “Star Scandals,” she said.

  “And what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” asked Onslow with a leer.

  “Getting a story,” she said.

  “Ah!” exclaimed the seaman. “Got it! Fenella Pruin! I like your stuff. This is an honour, meeting you.”

  Mal interrupted. “Cap’n, we have business . . .”

  “You mean that you want some cold beer, you old bastard. All right, come on board.” He turned back to Fenella. “I’ll see you later, Miz Pruin.”

  He led the chief to the gangway, then up into Triton’s accommodation block.

  “Why did you have to tell him your name?” Grimes demanded.

  “I could see that he recognised me. It cost me nothing to be nice to him, to get him on our side from the start.”

  “Dreeble recognised you—and look where that got us!”

  “He recognised you first, and that was the start of our troubles.”

  Onslow had come back to the head of his gangway, was calling out, “Miz Pruin, will you come on board? And bring him with you.”

  Grimes didn’t much like being referred to as “him” and, to judge from their expressions, Darleen and Shirl resented being excluded from the invitation. They looked after him reproachfully as he walked with Fenella across the firm sand, followed her up the ramp.

  Onslow—he was still wearing his cap with the ornate badge and the huge helping of scrambled egg—threw the girl a flamboyant salute as she reached the deck. He took her elbow with a meaty hand to guide her through a doorway into the accommodation. He had to relinquish his grip when they came to the companion way; it was too narrow for two to walk abreast. He went up first. Fenella followed. Grimes followed her.

  As they climbed to the captain’s quarters Grimes looked about curiously. They passed a little galley with an autochef that would not have looked out of place aboard a spaceship.

  There was a deck which was occupied by what seemed to be passenger cabins. Finally, directly below the wheelhouse-chartroom, was Captain Onslow’s suite. There was a large sitting room with bedroom and bathroom opening off it. In the sitting room, sprawling in one of the pneumatic chairs, Mal was drinking beer from a can bedewed with condensation. Three empty cans were on the deck beside him.

  Onslow ushered Fenella into another pneumatic chair, took a seat himself. Grimes sat down in another of the modified bladders; he had not been invited to do so but saw no reason to remain standing. The captain reached out to the low table for a can of beer, opened it and handed it to Fenella. He took one for himself. Mal helped himself to another one.

  “May I?” asked Grimes, extending
his hand to the table.

  “Go ahead. This is Liberty Hall; you can piss out of the window and put my only sister in the family way.”

  “Don’t you have a ship’s cat, Captain?” asked Grimes.

  “No. But what’s it to you?”

  “He’s just being awkward,” said Fenella Pruin. “He’s good at that.”

  “He looks the type,” agreed Onslow. “Now, Miz Pruin, Mal tells me that you’re in some kind of trouble, that you want to get back to Port Aphrodite without using the more usual means of public transport. As you’ve noticed, I have passenger accommodation. I understand that you require passage for yourself, for the two New Alice girls who’re with you and for Mr. . . . Mr. . . . ?”

  “Grimes,” said the owner of that name. “Captain Grimes.”

  “Captain, eh? Spacer, aren’t you? Must be. I know all the seamen on this planet. There aren’t all that many of us.” His manner towards Grimes was now more affable. “What’s your ship?”

  “Little Sister,” said Grimes.

  “Little Sister . . . Captain Grimes . . . There was something about you in the news a while back . . . Now, what was it? Oh, yes. You and some wench called Prunella Fenn went missing on a flight from Vulcan Island to somewhere or other in a hired camperfly . . . Prunella Fenn” . . . He looked hard at Fenella and laughed. “I’ve read your stories in Scandals, Miz Pruin. How you’ve often had to sail under false colours to get them. But I never dreamed that I’d ever meet you while you were doing it—or meet you at all, come to that!

  “And what will you be writing about New Venusberg? You don’t have to dig very deep to turn up muck here. Will it be about Big Mal and his people? About how they got to Kangaroo Valley? About the lottery rip-off?”

  “Possibly,” she said. “You’ll read it in Star Scandals. I doubt very much if that issue will be on sale here. I’ll send you a copy.”

  “And will you autograph it for me?”

  “I just might,” she said.

  “I’ll be looking forward to it. But shall we get down to business? The cargo should be down to the beach by now; I want to get it loaded so that we can start the party. Now—passage for four aboard Triton . . .” He looked at Fenella. She looked at him. “Make that passages for three. You, Captain, and your two popsies. Three times fifteen hundred comes to four thousand, five hundred credits. Food provided, drinks extra.”