“I thought,” said Grimes, staring at Mal, “that we’d already paid.”
“You paid,” said the chief, “just for the . . . arranging . . .”
You money-grubbing bastard, thought Grimes, but without overmuch bitterness. Agents, after all, are entitled to their fees, although a mere 10% is the usual rake-off. He did mental arithmetic. He could afford the fares and have something left over for booze and tobacco. Fenella’s drinks and smokes would be, he was quite certain, on the house.
“All right,” he said to Onslow.
“Cash on the nail, Captain Grimes.”
Grimes fumbled in his sporran, produced the money demanded.
He asked, as he handed it over, “Do we get tickets?”
“You don’t. The First Galactic Bank still owns a large hunk of this ship—according to my reckoning it’s from the fo’c’s’le head to about the middle of the main hatch—and the less they know about what I make on the side the better. Thank you, Captain.” He got up, put the money into a drawer in his desk. “Finish your beer, Mal. Let’s get up top and see about loading your precious prick stiffener.”
***
Grimes and Fenella accompanied Onslow and Mal up to the wheelhouse. Looking down on to the foredeck Grimes saw that a dozen Matilda’s Children were already on board, waiting for the hatch to be opened. They were all women, as were the other stevedores standing around the big heap of bulging plastic bags on the sand just off Triton’s port side.
Onslow threw the cover off a console below the port window of the wheelhouse. He touched a button and this opened, the glass panel sliding downwards. He fingered another control and the forward deck crane came to life, the jib lifting and slewing, coming to rest as soon as the captain was satisfied that everything was in working order. A small lever was flicked over and the hatch lids lifted, running almost noiselessly to their stowage just abaft the fo’c’s’le, leaving the forward end of the hatchway open. A vertical ladder was revealed just inside the coaming. Down this clambered the Matilda’s Children, looking like abnormally heavily rumped naked apes.
The weighted crane hook dropped into the aperture, rose after a short interval with a tray, on a double bridle, hanging from it. This swung outboard, was lowered to the sand. Working fast and efficiently the women on the beach loaded it with a dozen plastic bags. It was lifted, swung inboard and dropped swiftly into the hatch.
Grimes watched, fascinated by this combination of modern automation with methods of cargo handling almost as old as the sea-going ship. It seemed to be working all right. He said as much.
“And why the hell shouldn’t it?” demanded Onslow. “Human beings—or, as in this case, their facsimiles—are only machines. Non-specialised machines. On some worlds they cost a damn’ sight less than the sort o’ machines that are built out of metal and plastic. An’ who the hell is going to pay for roll-on-roll-off and containerisation facilities in little, used-once-in-a-blue-moon ports like Kangaroo Valley?”
The stack of bags on the beach was fast diminishing as Onslow played his crane with practised ease. The sun was well down but it was not yet properly dark when the last tray was brought on board. The stevedores came up the ladder, their bodies glistening in the glare of the floodlights shining down from the bridge superstructure, from the crane jib. The hatch lids, like a pack of cards toppling, piece by piece, from an on-edge position, ran back into their places, settled with an audible thunk.
“That’s that,” said Onslow smugly. “Loading completed. Now all I have to do is sail when I feel like it—which won’t be until not too bright and early tomorrow morning.”
“Aren’t you going to check the stowage, Captain?” asked Grimes.
“Why should I? All that those bitches had to do was make a single tier of bags over what was already there, cases of canned lemonfish from Port Poseidon . . .”
“Lemonfish is quite a delicacy, isn’t it. What about pilferage?”
Onslow laughed. “With the stevedores stark naked? And they’re big cans . . .”He lowered the jib of the crane into its crutch, switched off everything on the console, replaced the cover. He turned to Mal. “I’m ready for the party whether you are or not. Have some of your people come on board for the beer and all the rest of it. All this cargo handling has given me an appetite. And a thirst.”
Chapter 28
IT WAS A WET PARTY.
It was too wet for Grimes, who was not in the mood for heavy drinking that night. It was too wet, presumably, for Fenella Pruin and Captain Onslow, who absented themselves before the orgy got properly under way. Mal vanished too, and with him both Shirl and Darleen. The fat lady who was plying Grimes with can after can of beer (now lukewarm) and who was trying to spoonfeed him with some sort of salty fishpaste straight from the tin was not at all to his taste.
He broke away from her at last. (It was like disentangling himself from the embraces of a hot-blooded octopus; surely she possessed more than the usual quota of arms and legs.) He walked a little unsteadily down the beach to Triton, the high-flaring bonfire behind him casting a shadow before that wavered even more than he himself was doing. Raucous shouts, screams and drunken laughter were unmusical in his ears.
Triton was in darkness save for the light at the head of the gangway and a single flood at the fore end of the bridge superstructure. Grimes climbed the treaded ramp. The door into the accommodation was closed. He had to stand there until the security scanner, which had been programmed by Captain Onslow to recognise his passengers, identified him. It took its time about it while Grimes, in growing discomfort, shifted from foot to foot. He had taken too much beer and, away from the fire, the night air was chilly. Finally a bell chimed softly and the door opened. He hurried up to the passenger deck, went first of all to the common bathroom. Then, feeling much lighter, he looked into the cabin that had been allocated to Fenella Pruin. She was not there, of course. Neither were Shirl and Darleen in their berths. He had not expected them to be. He conceded grudgingly that Mal and Onslow were entitled to their droit de signeur. He, himself, was entitled to nothing and would not be until he was back on board his own ship.
He turned in.
***
He was awakened by an odd grinding noise that came from somewhere below, sensation as much as sound. He was aware that the ship was moving. She must be sliding stern first down to the river on the rollers set into her flat keel. (That peculiar construction had seemed outrageous to him but it seemed to be working all right.) He slid out of his bunk, pulled on his kilt and shirt. (He should have washed the drip-dry garments before retiring; they were unpleasantly sticky on his skin.) He went into the alleyway. He looked briefly into Shirl’s and Darleen’s cabins. They were aboard. Shirl had her back to him. Darleen, sprawled on her back and snoring, looked very much the worse for wear.
He went up to the wheelhouse.
Onslow was there, in his inevitable rig of the day, sarong and uniform cap, busy at the maneuvering console. Fenella, in a borrowed sarong, was standing beside him, sipping noisily from a big mug of coffee.
She turned to look at Grimes.
She said, “Stick around. You might learn something about shiphandling.”
Grimes watched with interest. It all looked very simple. Triton had backed out into midstream and now was swinging to head down river. Onslow’s big hands played over the controls like those of a master pianist. Then, satisfied, he made a last setting and stepped back.
He told his audience, “She’ll look after herself now. Radar controlled steering’ll keep her in mid-channel . . .”
“Shall we go down for breakfast, Clarrie?” asked Fenella.
“I’ll be staying up here until we’re over the bar. In narrow waters anything might happen.” He turned to Grimes. “Can you handle an autochef, Captain? The one here is the standard spaceship pattern. You’ll find eggs in the galley, and sliced bread, and ham . . . What about an omelet? And some more coffee?”
“Given an autochef to play with,” sa
id Fenella, “he kids himself that he’s in the cordon bleu class.”
“I’ll manage,” said Grimes. He would have preferred to stay in the wheelhouse to admire the passing scenery but he wanted breakfast. Obviously that was a meal which he would not enjoy unless he cooked it himself.
He went down to the galley. He found the eggs and the ham, broke a dozen of the former into the labeled funnel—FLUIDS & SEMI-FLUIDS—and fed hunks of ham into another one—SOLIDS. On the keyboard he typed Omelets—Ham—3. Execute.
The autochef hummed happily to itself while Grimes poured a mug of hot, black coffee from the dispenser. He was still drinking it when the Ready gong sounded. He put the mug down and threw slices of bread into the toasting attachment. Almost immediately the gong sounded again.
Oh, well, thought Grimes, he would just have to finish his coffee on the bridge.
He found a big tray, and plates and eating irons. He took the omelets from the autochef. They looked and smelled good. He loaded the tray. He knew how Fenella liked her coffee; he guessed that Onslow would want his black and sweet.
He managed to get up the companionways to the wheelhouse without dropping or spilling anything. He had expected that he would be welcome, but he was not. Fenella was leaning out of a forward window; Onslow was close, very close, behind her. Grimes coughed tactfully.
Onslow stepped back from Fenella, adjusting his sarong. Hers was on the deck about her ankles. She stooped to pull it up about her slim body before she turned. She glared at Grimes while Onslow looked at him almost apologetically.
She snarled. “You took so bloody long that we . . .”
Onslow pulled up a folding table, said, “Just put the tray down here, will you?”
Grimes did so.
“Thank you,” said Onslow. “Yes, we can manage three omelets, I think, between the two of us.” Then, “Oh, by the way, Captain Grimes, I don’t encourage passengers on my bridge, especially in pilotage waters.”
So Fenella wasn’t a passenger? thought Grimes. But she was working her passage, of course . . .
He left the wheelhouse, his prominent ears aflame.
On his way back to the galley he paused on the passenger deck. Shirl and Darleen were still sleeping, both of them snoring. So he would have to eat alone. This time he gave rather more thought to the preparation of the meal, using a tomato-like fruit and a sprinkling of herbs as well as ham for the filling of his omelet. He found a bottle of brandy and added a slug to his coffee.
He ate sitting on a small hatch on the little area of deck abaft the bridge superstructure, watching the scenery slide past, the wooded banks the shallow bays with their golden beaches. He was joined by Shirl (or Darleen; they had been dressed differently on making their escape from the Snuff Palace but now that they had reverted to nudity he had trouble telling them apart) on the hatch. She was carrying a mug of coffee. She looked enviously at the remains of Grimes’ breakfast, helped herself to a slice of toast and cream cheese.
She said plaintively, “I could pour myself a coffee but I couldn’t manage that machine . . .”
“I’ll do you something, Shirl.”
“Darleen. I’ve a sort of birthmark here . . .” She indicated a mole on her upper thigh. “See.”
“What about in the dark?” asked Grimes.
“You can feel it . . .”
She guided his hand to the spot.
“I’m hungry,” complained Shirl, coming out to join them. “I thought that passengers were supposed to be fed. I went up to the . . . the control room to ask and they, the captain and that Fenella, threw me out. They were . . .”
“I can guess,” said Grimes.
He got up from the hatch and led the two girls into the galley. They both wanted grilled fish for breakfast. (Whoever that long-ago genetic engineer had been he had made considerable modifications to the original stock; kangaroos are herbivores.) They returned to the lazarette hatch, Grimes with more coffee for himself. Sitting there in the warm sunlight with an attractive girl on either side of him he was reminded of a painting he had once seen. What was it called? Picnic On The Grass, or something. But in that there was only one naked woman, surrounded by fully clothed—even to tophats!—men. Here it was a single clothed (more or less) man surrounded by naked women.
And why should he be clothed? The air was warm and the shirt, which should have been washed the previous night, was uncomfortably sticky. He took it off. Darleen, on his right, was sitting very close to him. So, on his left, was Shirl.
Shirl said, “I’ve a birthmark too, John . . .”
(Grimes wondered just how telepathic these women were.)
“Just under my left breast. . . If it’s dark you can feel it. . .”
“It’s not dark now,” said Grimes, but allowed his hand to be guided to the place. Somehow his fingers finished up on her nipple—and the fingers of the hand that Darleen had taken also strayed.
It was Darleen who fell back supine on to the hatch, pulling Grimes with her. It was Shirl who found the fastening at the waistband of his kilt, who pulled the garment from him. He was the meat in an erotic sandwich, with Darleen’s moist, hungry mouth beneath his, with Shirl’s breasts, with their erect nipples, pressed into his naked back, with her teeth gently nibbling his right ear.
From above there came laughter and the sound of hand-clapping.
The girls would have ignored this but Grimes could not. He extricated himself, not without difficulty, from the dual embrace. He looked up. The obnoxious Onslow and the even more obnoxious Fenella Pruin were at the rail at the after end of the bridge, grinning down at them.
“Now you know what it’s like to be interrupted!” said the Pruin.
TWENTY-NINE
GRIMES WAS USED TO ODD VOYAGES, to pleasant ones and to unpleasant ones. He was used (of course) to ships, although not at this stage of his career to vessels plying planetary seas rather than the oceans of deep space. But a ship is a ship is a ship, no matter in what medium she swims. Oars, sails, screw propellers, hydraulic jets, inertial drive units or whatever are all no more (and no less) than devices to move tonnage, small or considerable, from Point A to Point B fast or economically or, ideally, both.
Apart from the captain’s quarters and the wheelhouse Grimes had the run of Triton. Onslow, infatuated with Fenella Pruin, let it be understood that his other passengers could look after themselves, preparing their own meals in the galley, signing for whatever liquor or cigars they took from the bar stores. Grimes did all the cooking for himself and Shirl and Darleen. He was used to getting the best out of an autochef, the two New Alicians were not. Anything they tried more complex than a simple grill was a culinary disaster.
Triton seemed to be navigating herself. Her pilot-computer had been programmed to keep her on a safe track along the coast, to compensate automatically for wind and current, to keep clear of other sea-borne traffic and, Grimes learned on one of the rare occasions that he met Onslow in the galley and had a brief conversation with him, to sound an alarm if the ship had gotten herself into a close quarters situation or any other potential danger.
Grimes, who spent most of the daylight hours on deck, watched the passing ships with interest. There were bulk carriers. There was an occasional huge cruise liner, white-gleaming with deck upon deck upon deck. There were fishing boats—some, dowdily utilitarian, obviously commercial, others so flashily painted and equipped that they must be catering to wealthy tourists wishing to combine their boozing and wenching with some outdoor sport.
Of these charter boats a few had what looked like a cannon mounted forward. This intrigued Grimes; those little vessels could not possibly be warships. Then, one morning, he was privileged to see a gun in action. He watched, through borrowed binoculars, a harpoon streaking out to hit what, until the moment of impact had been no more than an almost totally submerged, immobile object that he had assumed was a waterlogged tree trunk.
There was more to it than had been visible above the surface, much more.
The thing exploded in a frenzy of activity, thrashing the water in its agonies. There was a maned head at the end of a long, slender neck, there was a thick tail with flukes at the extremity, a barrel-shaped body with three pairs of flippers. After the initial flurry it sounded. The harpoon line stretched taut and the bows of the chaser almost went under. Then it was moving fast, under power, relieving the tension on the line as it pursued the stricken sea beast.
“They call them Moby Dicks,” volunteered Darleen who, with Shirl, was standing with Grimes on the afterdeck.
“Moby Dicks? Couldn’t they have found a name out of Greek mythology?” asked Grimes.
“What’s that?” asked Shirl.
“Never mind. But what do they hunt them for? Are they good to eat?”
“No. But the tourists like sport—as we know.”
“Too right,” said Grimes.
“Even the Shaara hunt the Moby Dicks,” said Darleen. “But they do it from their own airships. Their . . . blimps.”
“They would,” said Grimes. Then, reminiscently, “I used to think that the Shaara were a harmless, peace-loving people. I learned differently.”
“They’re only human,” said Shirl.
“Mphm,” grunted Grimes.
The chaser was hull down now, only its upperworks showing over the sea horizon. Grimes felt sorry for the Moby Dick. It had been basking on the surface, minding its own business and had been jerked into wakefulness by a harpoon, fired by some moneyed lout, in the guts. And after it had been messily slaughtered it would just be left drifting, to decompose . . .
He looked at his watch. It was almost lunchtime. He was beginning to feel hungry. The previous night, spent in the company of the New Alicians, eager to demonstrate the professional skills they had learned on New Venusberg, tolerant of the inadequacies engendered by past traumatic experiences and that he had yet fully to overcome, had been a wearing one.
Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III Page 44