The policeman raised his heavy eyebrows in surprise. He growled, “So the Commissioner will see you. What have you got that all the other spacers haven’t? The elevators are over there, citizen. The Commissioner’s office is on the top floor.” He laughed again. “The apex of our pyramid.”
Grimes thanked the man, walked to the bank of elevators. As he approached the indicator, lights showed that a cage was descending. The door opened as he got to it. There was nobody inside. The door closed again as soon as he had entered and the lift started to rise before he could touch the button of his choice.
Service, he thought. With a smile?
The car stopped gently. The door opened. Grimes stepped out. The walls of the apex of the police pyramid were all glass, overhead automatically polarized to reduce the glare of the sun. There were elaborate arrays of screens, some of which displayed ever-changing pictures while in others numerals flickered into and out of being. There was a big desk behind which was sitting a woman, a large woman in black and silver uniform with what looked like commodore’s braid on her shoulderboards.
She looked at Grimes. Grimes looked at her. Beneath her glossy brown hair, short cut, the face was too strong for prettiness, the cheekbones pronounced, the pale-lipped mouth wide over rather too much jaw.
“Una . . .” he said softly. “Long time no see.”
“Commissioner Freeman,” she corrected him harshly. “I knew, of course, that you were on this planet but I was able, quite successfully, to fight down the urge to renew our old . . . acquaintanceship. But now that you have come to see me I let my curiosity get the better of me.
“And what do you want? Make it quick. I’m a busy woman.”
“I didn’t know that you were the Police Commissioner here, Una. When did you leave the Corps of Sky Marshals? How . . .”
“This isn’t a social call, Grimes. What do you want?”
“Your men, Una . . .” She glared at him. He started again. “Your men, Commissioner Freeman, arrested one of my officers. I’d like her back. I’m willing to pay her fine.” He added hastily, “Within reason, of course.”
“One of your officers, Grimes? The only spacer at present in our cells is a known troublemaker, a Kate Connellan, whose most recent employment was with the Interstellar Transport Commission. She faces charges of assaulting a police officer, occasioning bodily harm. There are three such charges. Also to be considered, and compensated for, is the damage done to the uniforms of those officers. There are five charges of assaulting civilians. There are charges of violent and abusive behavior. There are charges of damage to property—mainly furniture and fittings of The Rusty Rocket. Need I go on?”
“It seems enough to be going on with,” admitted Grimes glumly.
“But how is it that you can claim that this person is one of your officers, Captain Grimes?”
“I opened Articles today, Commissioner Freeman. Ms. Connellan was supposed to sign on as second mate. I’ll be frank. She wouldn’t have been my choice but she was the only qualified officer available.”
“Still the male chauvinist pig, Grimes, aren’t you?”
“Her sex has nothing to do with my reluctance to employ her. And, in any case, I must have her if I’m to lift off on time.”
“You should have kept that Little Sister of yours. To judge from my experiences while under your command—ha, ha!—a glorified lifeboat is just about the limit of your capabilities. But you had to have a big ship, didn’t you? Epsilon Scorpii—or Sister Sue, as you’ve renamed her. Who was Sue, by the way?”
“Just a girl,” said Grimes.
“Spoken like a true male chauvinist pig. I hope that she has happier memories of you than I have. Even now I can’t force myself to eat baked beans. And as for bicycles . . .”
“You can’t blame me for either,” said Grimes hotly.
“Can’t I? Well, after that most peculiar mess that you got me into I was allergic to space as well as to beans and bicycles. I resigned from the Corps—although I’m still supposed to be on their reserve list. And I’ve found that useful. Sky Marshals poll heavy Gs with most of the planetary police forces.”
“So when you came here you started at the top,” said Grimes as nastily as he dared.
“Not at the top, although my having been a Sky Marshal entitled me to inspector’s rank. After that my promotion was strictly on merit.”
“Local girl makes good,” said Grimes.
“Do you want to be arrested too? I can soon think of a few charges. Insulting behavior to a police officer for a start . . .”
“I can see that I’m wasting my time,” said Grimes. He turned to walk back to the transparent tube in the center of the room that housed the elevator.
“Hold it, Grimes!”
Grimes halted in mid-stride, turned to face Una Freeman.
“Yes, Commissioner?”
“I am disposed to be lenient. Not to you, Captain, but to Ms. Connellan. I have heard accounts of what actually happened at The Rusty Rocket. She was provoked. You aren’t the only male chauvinist pig around, you know. It is unfortunate that she attacked my officers after dealing with those . . . men who had been taunting her. Nonetheless she is not a very nice person. I shall be happy if she is removed from this planet.
“Pay her fines to the desk sergeant on your way out and she will be released to your custody. Bear in mind that you will be responsible for her good conduct for the remainder of her stay on this world.”
“Thank you,” said Grimes.
She laughed harshly and asked, “Will you still thank me after you’ve been cooped up in a ship with The Green Hornet for a few weeks? Am I doing you a good turn, Grimes? Think that if you want. But I sincerely hope that by the time you get to Earth you’ll have changed your tiny mind!”
Grimes stood there silently, looking at her. He remembered how things had been between them before everything had turned sour. He remembered the long weeks in the accommodation dome of that unmanned beacon station, the continual bickerings, the monotonous diet of baked beans, with which delicacy the emergency food stores had been fantastically well stocked.
It was a pity that things had gone so badly wrong. He, for a while at least, had loved her after his fashion. She had reciprocated. But when the beacon tender, making its leisurely rounds, had finally arrived to pick them up they were no longer on speaking terms.
Even so . . .
“Thank you,” he said again.
“For nothing,” she growled and then, ignoring him, began to study the papers on her desk.
She ignored his good bye as he left her.
Chapter 7
THE DESK SERGEANT must have been given his orders while Grimes was on the way down from the Commissioner’s office. There were forms ready for signing. There was a receipt book.
“What have you got that other spacers haven’t, citizen?” he asked. “But as long as you’ve got money that’s all that really matters. Ha, ha. Now, the fines . . . Grievous bodily harm to the persons of three police officers at five hundred credits a time . . . That’s fifteen hundred. Replacement of one complete uniform . . . One hundred and seven credits and fifteen cents . . . Repairs and dry cleaning to two other uniforms . . . Twenty-three credits fifty . . . Medical services to the assaulted officers . . . One hundred and fifty credits . . . Riotous behavior, breach of the peace, etc. . . . Two hundred and fifty credits. One night’s board and lodging in our palatial cells . . . One hundred and twenty-five credits. Ten percent service charge . . . Two hundred and fifteen credits and fifty-seven cents. Making a total of two thousand, three hundred and seventy-one credits and twenty-two cents.”
“Is there no discount for cash?” asked Grimes sarcastically. The policeman ignored this.
“A check will be acceptable,” he said, “or any of the major credit cards.”
Grimes pulled out his checkbook and looked at the stubs. He was one of those people who prefer to keep their own accounts rather than put himself at the mercy of the c
omputers. He was still quite a way from being flat broke. He made out a check for the required amount, signed it and handed it over, was given a receipt in exchange.
“And now, citizen, if you’ll sign these . . .” These were official forms, and by affixing his autograph to them he made himself entirely responsible for Ms. Connellan during the remainder of her stay on Austral. He would be liable for any debts that she had incurred. He would be liable, too, for any further fines, for the costs of any civil actions brought against her and so on and so on and so on.
Una Freeman was striking a very hard bargain. It was a seller’s market.
He signed.
When he straightened up from the desk he turned to see that the Green Hornet, escorted by two policewomen who looked even tougher than herself, had been brought up from the cells. She was not a prepossessing sight. One of her eyes had been blackened. Her green hair was in a tangle. Her clothing was soiled and torn.
She scowled at Grimes.
She said sullenly, “I suppose you’re expecting me to thank you. But you’re only helping yourself, aren’t you? We both know that.”
“That’s the way of it,” said Grimes. “And now we’ll get you to the Shipping Office to sign on, and then you’ll report straightaway to the chief officer, aboard the ship. He’ll find you a job to keep you out of mischief.”
“What about my gear?” she demanded. “All my things are still at The Rusty Rocket. I can’t join a ship without so much as a toothbrush or change of underwear.”
“We’ll stop off on the way to the Shipping Office,” Grimes told her.
There was a public telephone in this groundfloor office. Grimes used it to order a cab. He said a polite good day to the sergeant and the two female constables then went outside to wait, almost pushing Ms. Connellan ahead of him. He realized that he was afraid that Una Freeman might change her mind and was anxious to remove himself from close proximity to her as soon as possible.
The Green Hornet asked him for a cigarette. He told her that he did not use them. He produced and filled his pipe, lit it. She snarled at him, saying, “It’s all right for you.”
He told her, “Just stand to leeward of me and you’ll be getting a free smoke.” She snarled at him again, wordlessly.
The cab came. Grimes got in beside the driver so that she could sit in solitary state on the back seat. The ride to The Rusty Rocket was made in silence; the driver, unrepresentative of his breed, was not a conversationalist and Ms. Connellan seemed to be sulking. This suited Grimes, who was in no mood to be ear-bashed.
They arrived at the shabby hostelry, a small, pyramidal building with functionless vanes giving it a faint similitude to an archaic spaceship. Grimes asked the driver to wait for them. He and the Green Hornet went inside.
***
There were unpleasantries.
Ms. Connellan did not have—or said that she did not have—the money to pay her bill. Grimes had been expecting that. What he had not been expecting was to be presented with another bill, a heavy one, to cover repairs to the replacement of various pieces of equipment and furniture. It was obvious, he was obliged to admit, that the playmaster had had its face smashed in, and recently. On the other hand the thing looked as though it had been on the point of dying of old age when it had been put out of its misery. There were two broken bar stools. There was a dent in the stained surface of the bar. There was a bin of broken bottles which, according to the sour-faced manageress, had been swept off the shelves behind the bar by the berserk Green Hornet.
“Did you do this damage?” asked Grimes exasperatedly.
“I did not!” snapped Ms. Connellan.
“She did!” yelped the manageress. “Like a wild beast she was! Screaming and shouting . . .”
“I had to scream to make myself heard! I had to fight to defend myself!”
“If there was a fight, you started it!”
“I did not!” She turned to Grimes. “Pay no heed to her, Captain. She’s lying like a flatfish!”
“Lying, you say, you deceptive bitch! Who’s lying, I ask. Not me. And I’m holding on to your bags until I’m paid for all the wanton destruction!”
“You’ll let me have my baggage,” snarled the Green Hornet, advancing threateningly on the landlady, “or . . .”
“Ladies, ladies,” admonished Grimes, interposing himself between them.
“Ladies . . .” sneered Ms. Connellan. “I’ll thank you not to tack that archaic label on to me!”
“She admits it!” jeered the other woman. “She’s no lady!”
“Who are you calling no lady, you vinegar-pussed harridan? I’ll . . .”
“You will not!” almost shouted Grimes, pushing Ms. Connellan to one side before she could strike the manager. “Now, listen to me! Unless you behave yourself I’ll put you in the hands of the police again. The Commissioner’s an old friend of mine . . .” (Well, she had been a friend, and rather more than a friend, once, a long time ago.) “I’ll ask her to keep you under lock and key until I’m ready to lift ship. And as for you, madam . . .”
“Don’t talk to me like that, buster. I’m not one of your crew.”
“Can I see that bill again, madam?” She thrust the sheet of dirty and crumpled paper at him. “Mphm. I see that you’re charging for a new playmaster. And that I am not paying. One quarter of the sum you’ve put down should buy a good second-hand one, one far better than that . . . wreck. The bar stools? I’ll let that pass, although I still think that you’re overcharging. The dent in the bar? No. That’s an old damage, obviously. And now, all these bottles . . . Were they all full bottles? I’ll not believe that, madam. I note, too, that you’ve charged retail price. Don’t you buy your liquor at wholesale rates?”
“I’m an honest woman, mister!”
“Tell that to the Police Commissioner,” said Grimes. “I’ve no doubt that she’s already well acquainted with your honesty.” He began to feed figures into his wrist companion. “One second-hand playmaster . . . I’ve seen them going for as-low as one hundred credits, quite good ones . . . Six bottles of Scotch at four credits each wholesale . . . Twenty-four credits . . . But as they were almost certainly no more than half full, that makes it twelve credits . . .” He raised his eyebrows. “Brandy, at twenty-four credits a bottle? Even as a retail price that’s steep.”
“Either you pay,” said the woman stubbornly, “or I call the police.”
“Do just that,” Grimes told her. “As I’ve said already, Commissioner Freeman is an old friend of mine.”
“Like hell she is. She hates spacers.”
“In general, yes. But in particular? Ask yourself why she released Ms. Connellan to my custody, although usually she insists that spacers serve their full sentences, with no fines and no bail.”
“All right,” said the woman suddenly. “All right. I’ll take your word for what you say you owe me. Just don’t come back in here again, ever. And tell that green bitch of yours to keep clear of my premises.”
“Who are you calling a green bitch, you draggle-tailed slut?” screamed Kate Connellan. “I’ll . . .”
“You will not!” snapped Grimes. “Collect your bags and put them in the cab. And now, madam, if you’ll make out a receipt for two hundred and ten credits . . . That covers the playmaster, the bar stools and a very generous estimate of the cost of liquor lost by breakage.”
Check and receipt changed hands.
Grimes went out to the waiting cab in which the Green Hornet, two battered cases on the seat beside her, was sullenly established. He got in beside the driver, told him to carry on to the spaceport.
Chapter 8
THE CAB BROUGHT them into the spaceport, to the foot of Sister Sue’s ramp.
Grimes was pleased to see that the loading ramps had been set up around his ship, that already streams of crates and cases were being whisked up from the apron to the yawning cargo ports. This was real freight, he thought, not the little parcels of luxury goods that he had been carrying in
Little Sister. He could read the consignee’s title stenciled on each package: SURVEY SERVICE RECORDS, PORT WOOMERA. There had once been a major Survey Service Base on Austral, which had been degraded to a Sub-Base. Finally, only a short while ago, it had been closed down altogether. The transport Robert A. Heinlein had lifted off personnel and all the really important stores and equipment. There had been no great hurry for the rest of the stuff, mainly records going back almost to man’s first landing on Earth’s moon, until the warehouse accommodating the material was required for a factory site.
So perhaps, thought Grimes, this was not real freight after all, except in terms of tonnage. Anybody with any sense would have ordered all that junk destroyed—but the Survey Service, as well he knew, was a breeding ground for planet-based bureaucrats whose dusty files were the temples of whatever odd gods they worshipped.
Nonetheless he had been lucky to get this cargo.
Quite fantastically it had tied in with Magda Granadu’s reading of the I Ching. She had thrown the coins and constructed a hexagram on the afternoon of the day that Grimes had renamed the ship. Huan, it had been. Dispersion. There will be progress and success. The king visits his ancestral temple. It will be advantageous to cross the great water and to act with firm persistence. And in the first line there had been the reference to “a strong horse”—and the Epsilon Class tramps had long been known as the sturdy workhorses of the Interstellar Transport Commission.
Yet Grimes had been dubious, at first, about the wisdom of carrying that cargo to those consignees. He had left the Survey Service under a cloud, had resigned hastily before he could be brought to face a court-martial. But, apart from the obnoxious Delamere’s attempt to drag him back to Lindisfarne Base from Botany Bay, there had been no moves made to arrest him, although more than once, as a civilian shipmaster, he had been in contact with Survey Service vessels and personnel.
He had gone to Captain Taberner, Resident Secretary of the Astronauts’ Guild on Austral, for advice.
Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III Page 52