Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III

by A Bertram Chandler

  “A drink, Skipper?” asked Williams.

  “Just one,” said Grimes. “We don’t want to arrive doing an impersonation of drunken and dissolute spacemen.”

  When the button was pushed a section of panel fell back to form a shelf and to expose a compartment containing a rack of bottles, another one of glasses and a tiny refrigerator with an ice cube tray. There was a box of cigarettes and one of cigarillos. There was even a jar of pipe tobacco. (Grimes had smoked the local weed when on El Dorado, years ago, and enjoyed it.)

  Magda dispensed drinks—whisky, genuine Scotch, for herself and Williams, gin and bitters for Grimes. She and Williams lit up cigarillos. Grimes scraped out his pipe and refilled it with the fragrant mixture. The three of them sipped and smoked, watching, through the wide windows, the landscape over which they were flying.

  Here, between the spaceport and the city, it was well tamed, given over to agriculture. There were orchards, with orderly rows of fruit trees. There were green fields, and other fields that were seas of golden grain. In these the harvesters were working, great machines whose bodies of polished metal reflected the rays of the setting sun.

  Ahead was the city, a small one, a very small one compared to the sprawling warrens found on the majority of the worlds of man. There were towers, only one of which was really tall, and great houses, oddly old-fashioned in appearance, few of which were higher than four stories. Every building stood in what was, in effect, its own private park. Lights were coming on as the sun went down, in windows and along the wide, straight avenues.

  The air car was losing altitude. It dropped to the road about a kilometer from the city limits, continued its journey as a wheeled vehicle. The landing was so smooth that had the passengers been sitting with their eyes shut they would never have noticed it. The vehicle sped on with neither noise nor vibration, a great orchard with golden-fruit-laden trees on either side of it. Then it was running along one of the avenues. There was other road traffic, ground cars which, like their own transport, were probably capable of functioning as flying machines.

  Williams was enthusiastic. “Look, Skipper! A Mercedes! And isn’t that a Sunbeam?”

  That was an open car, with wire wheels and a profusion of highly polished brass. (Or gold, thought Grimes. On this world it could well be the precious metal.) A man in an archaic costume—belted jacket, high, stiff collar with cravat, peaked cap—was at the wheel. By his side sat a woman with a dust coat over her dress, with her hat secured to her head by a filmy scarf tied over it and beneath her chin. Both these persons wore heavy goggles.

  The pseudo Rolls Royce slowed, turned off the avenue on to a graveled drive, made its way to a brilliantly illuminated portico beyond which loomed Leckhampton House, grey and solid, a façade in which windows glowed softly like the ranked ports of a great surface ship, a cruise liner perhaps, sliding by in the dusk. The car stopped. The robot chauffeur got out to open the door for his passengers, saluting smartly as they dismounted. In the doorway of the house stood a very proper English butler, pewter-faced, who bowed as he ushered them in. Another robot servitor, slimmer and younger looking than the first, led them to the drawing room, a large apartment illumined by the soft light from gasoliers, that was all gilt and red plush, the walls of which were covered with crimson silk upon which floral designs had been worked in gold.

  It was all rather oppressive.

  Following the servant Grimes and his companions walked slowly toward the elderly lady seated on a high-backed chair that was almost a throne.

  “Your Grace,” said the robot, “may I present Captain John Grimes, of the spaceship Sister Sue, and . . .”

  “Cut the cackle, Jenkins,” said the Duchess. “I’ve known Captain Grimes for years. Shove off, will you?”

  “Very good, Your Grace.”

  The servitor bowed and left.

  “And now, John Grimes, let me have a look at you. You’ve changed hardly at all . . .”

  “And neither have you, Your Grace,” said Grimes truthfully. He looked at her with admiration. She was dressed formally—and what she was wearing would not have looked out of place at the court of the first Queen Elizabeth, richly brocaded silk over a farthingale (Grimes wondered how she could manage to sit down while wearing such a contraption), ruff and rebato. A diamond choker was about her neck. There were more diamonds, a not so small coronet, decorating the obvious auburn wig that she was wearing over her own hair.

  “Introduce me to the young lady and the young gentleman, John.”

  “Your Grace,” said Grimes formally, remembering the style used by the rudely dismissed under butler or whatever he was, “may I present Miss Magda Granadu, my Catering Officer and Purser? And Mr. William Williams, my Chief Officer?”

  “So you’re the commissioned cook, Magda,” cackled the old lady. “By the looks of John you ain’t starving him. And you’re his mate, Billy, somebody to hold his hand when he gets into a scrape. Do you still get into scrapes, John boy?”

  “Now and again,” admitted Grimes.

  Then there were the others to meet—in Grimes’ case to meet again. There was the Baron Takada, his obesity covered with antique evening finery, white tie and tails, the scarlet ribbon of some order diagonally across his snowy shirtfront with its black pearl studs. There was the Hereditary Chief Lobenga, tall and muscular, darkly handsome, in a high-collared, gold-braided, white uniform. There was his wife, the Lady Eulalia, her glistening black hair elaborately coiled above her face with its creamy skin, the nose too aquiline for mere prettiness, the mouth a wide, scarlet slash. Through the pale translucence of her simple gown her body gleamed rosily.

  An under butler circulated with a tray of drinks. Grimes did not have to state his preference for pink gin; it was served to him automatically.

  “You remember my tastes, Your Grace,” he said.

  “Indeed I do, John-boy. For drinks and for . . .”

  The butler made a stately entrance into the room.

  “The Princess Marlene von Stolzberg,” he announced. “Commodore the Baron Kane, El Doradan Navy. The Baroness Michelle d’Estang . . .”

  So she had come to see him after all, thought Grimes. It was a pity that Mayhew had not been able to warn him. She had put on weight, he thought, and remembered regretfully the slim, golden girl whom he had seen, skimming over Lake Bluewater, on the occasion of his first landing on this world. And yet she was more beautiful than she had seemed when he had talked to her by telephone. Like Eulalia she was simply but expensively attired in a robe of smoky spider silk—but her dress was definitely opaque.

  She recognized his presence with a distant nod. He bowed to her with deliberate stiffness.

  But Drongo Kane was cordial enough. Like Grimes and Williams he was in civilian evening wear; unlike them he gave no impression of being dressed up for the occasion. His suit looked as though it had been slept in. His black bow tie, obviously of the clip-on variety, was askew.

  He seized Grimes’ hand in a meaty paw, almost shouted, “Grimes, me old cobber! Welcome aboard!”

  “This happens to be my party, Baron, in my house,” said the Duchess coldly.

  “But I am the naval authority on this planet, Duchess,” Kane told her cheerfully. Then, to Grimes, “Let by-gones be by-gones is my motto. I’ve even brought Micky along to see you again.”

  “I brought myself,” snapped the Baroness. She looked at Grimes and he at her. Her dress was modeled on the Greek chiton—but of the style worn by artisans, warriors and slaves. It was short, very short, secured at the left shoulder by a brooch that was a huge diamond surrounded by smaller stones. Her arms and her right shoulder were bare. Her gleaming, auburn hair was braided into a coronet in which precious stones reflected, almost dazzlingly, the gaslight. Her fine features were illumined by a sudden smile. “John, it’s good to see you!”

  “And it’s good to see you . . .” How should one address a Baroness? he wondered. “Your Excellency . . .”

  “Not here,”
she told him. “That was for when I was off planet, in my own ship, with ambassadorial status. Call me Michelle.” She glared at her husband as she added, “But don’t call me Micky!”

  Grimes would have liked to have talked longer with her but Drongo Kane was an inhibiting influence. So he circulated. He tried to make conversation with the Princess Marlene but it was heavy going. And then he was unable to escape from Baron Takada who evinced a keen interest, too keen an interest, in the financial aspects of shipowning.

  Then the Robot butler announced in sonorous tones, “Your Grace, dinner is served.”

  Grimes realized that he was supposed to escort the Duchess in to the dining room. She put her hand lightly into the crook of his left elbow, indicated that they should follow the stately mechanical servitor. They marched slowly into the dining room, a huge apartment the walls of which were covered with broad-striped paper in black and white. At the head of the table, covered with a snowy-white cloth on which the array of golden cutlery and crystal glassware glittered, was the tall-backed chair, of ebony, which was obviously Her Grace’s. The illumination, from massed candles in golden holders, was soft but adequate.

  The Duchess seated, Grimes stood behind his chair, at her right, waiting for the other ladies to take their places. Opposite him was Marlene. Below her was Baron Takada, then the Lady Eulalia, then Hereditary Chief Lobenga. Williams was at the foot of the table. On Grimes’ right was Michelle, with Drongo Kane below her, then Magda.

  There was no scarcity of robot footmen. In a very short time all the guests were seated, a pale, dry sherry was being poured into the first of the glasses, and plates, of fine gold-trimmed porcelain, were set down at each plate. Grimes looked at his curiously. Surely this could not be a rose, a pink rose? But it was not, of course. It was smoked salmon, sliced very thinly and arranged in convincing simulation of petals.

  He raised his glass to the Duchess and said, “Your very good health, Your Grace.”

  “Down the hatch, Skipper!” she cackled in reply. Across the table the Princess looked disapprovingly both at her hostess and at that lady’s guest.

  Course followed course, each one beautifully cooked and served. English cookery is often sneered at but at its best it is superb. There was a clear oxtail soup, followed by grilled trout, followed by game pie. There was a huge roast of beef, wheeled around on a trolley and carved to each diner’s requirements. (By this time Grimes was beginning to wonder if he would be able to find any room for some of that noble Stilton cheese he had noticed on the ebony sideboard.) There was tipsy cake, with thick cream. And there were the wines—the sherry, obviously imported, a hock that was a product of the Count Vitelli’s vineyards and none the worse for that. With the game pie came a delightfully smooth claret, and with the beef a heavier but equally smooth Burgundy. Vitelli Spumante accompanied the sweet.

  After all that Grimes could manage only a token sliver of the delicious Stilton. He looked down the table a little enviously at Williams, who was piling the creamy, marbled delicacy high on to crackers and conveying them enthusiastically to his mouth.

  During the meal the conversation had been pleasant and interesting—and at times, insofar as Grimes was concerned, a little embarrassing. The Baroness told a few stories of their voyagings together in The Far Traveler. “If I had let her,” she said, “Big Sister—that was the name that we had for the yacht’s pilot-computer—would have spoiled John as much as you’ve been spoiling him tonight. She even made pipe tobacco for him; I think she used dried lettuce leaves for the main ingredient . . .”

  “It was still a good smoke,” said Grimes.

  “Talking of smoking,” said the Duchess, “shall we leave the gentlemen to their port wine and cigars?”

  All rose when she did. She was escorted from the dining room by her majordomo, the other ladies by robot footmen.

  The gentlemen resumed their seats.

  Chapter 25

  A SERVITOR BROUGHT IN a large decanter of port wine, another a box of cigars, a third golden ashtrays and lighters. When these had been set down on the table the robots retired. Drongo Kane got up from his chair, took, as though by right, the Duchess’s seat at the head of the table. Baron Tanaka was now sitting opposite Grimes, with the Hereditary Chief next to him. Williams moved up to sit next to his captain.

  The decanter circulated. Kane filled his glass to the very brim. So did Williams. Cigars were ignited.

  “Perhaps we should have a toast,” said Kane. He raised his glass. “Here’s to crime!”

  And it was a crime, thought Grimes, how that uncouth bastard gulped that beautiful wine as though it were lager beer on a hot day.

  “But it is not crime,” said Baron Takada, “if it is legal.”

  “As a banker, you should know, Hiroshi,” Kane said. “What do you think, Grimes?”

  “I always try to keep on the right side of the Law,” said Grimes.

  “Don’t you find it rather a strain at times? A man like you. I’ve always thought that you’d make a good pirate. I haven’t forgotten what you did to my ship that first time on Morrowvia.”

  “I thought that you were letting by-gones be by-gones.”

  “I am, Grimesey-boy, I am. I might even put some business your way. Some honest crime. Or legal crime.”

  “You’re contradicting yourself, Kane.”

  “Have you ever known me to do that?” He refilled his glass, to the brim again, looked over it at Grimes. “Tell me, have you never regretted having left the Survey Service? Have you never felt naked swanning around in an unarmed ship when, for all your spacefaring life prior to the Discovery mutiny, you’ve had guns and missiles and the gods know what else to play with?”

  “Are you offering me a commission in the El Doradan navy?” asked Grimes.

  Kane laughed. “To be an officer in our navy you have to be of noble birth and I don’t think that you qualify.”

  “If you’re a fair sample of nobility, Baron Kane, I’m glad that I don’t.”

  “Temper, temper, Grimes!” Kane wagged his cigar reprovingly. “Anyhow, you’re a trained fighting spaceman.” He turned to Williams. “And so are you, Mister Mate. You’re out of the Dog Star Line—and they’ve always made a practice of defensively arming their ships when necessary.”

  “I have been in action, sir,” admitted Williams.

  “And there’s your Third Officer, Grimes,” Kane went on. “Your Mr. Venner. A Survey Service Reserve officer.”

  “How do you know all this?” asked Grimes.

  “From your ship’s papers, of course. The data was fed into the Monitor when you were cleared inward.”

  “And what are you driving at?” Grimes demanded.

  Kane did not reply but Baron Takada murmured, “In times of economic stress the armed and armored man survives.”

  It sounded profound, probably more so than it actually was.

  “Economic stress?” echoed Grimes.

  “Yes, Captain. A state of affairs to which you are no stranger. My reading of your character is that you are a man who would take up arms to defend what is his. And has it not been said that attack is the best defense?”

  So, thought Grimes, the first feelers were being put out. It would be out of character for him to be too eager to take the bait.

  He said, “This is all very interesting, gentlemen, but I don’t see how it concerns me. I own and command a ship, fully paid for. I show a profit on my voyage from Earth to El Dorado. Presumably there will be some cargo from here to elsewhere in the galaxy.”

  “I am afraid that there will not be,” said Baron Takada. “The Interstellar Transport Commission has the contract for the shipment of our metal products off El Dorado. Too, I can tell you that there are no cargoes for ships such as yours, independently operated star tramps, in this sector of the galaxy.” He smiled apologetically. “It is my business to know such things. The Duchess asked me if I could be of help to you in finding you employment, or in advising you where to find emplo
yment. I command a fine commercial and financial intelligence service and I have set it to work on your behalf. All inquiries have been fruitless.”

  “Something will turn up,” said Grimes.

  “Still riding your famous luck, Grimesey-boy?” laughed Kane. “I sort of gained the impression that it had been running out lately. If I hadn’t pulled you out of the soup on New Venusberg . . .”

  “I gained the impression,” Grimes said, “that it was the Baroness who was largely responsible for my rescue.”

  “I was there too.” Again he filled his glass, then sent the decanter on its rounds. Baron Takada waved it on. Hereditary Chief Lobenga helped himself generously. So did Williams. So did Grimes. He knew that he should be keeping a clear head but this wine was of a quality that he rarely encountered.

  Kane continued, “Just suppose your luck does run out, Grimes. Just suppose that you’re stuck here, waiting for news of employment somewhere, anywhere, with port dues mounting and your bank balance getting lower and lower. And just suppose that I, your old cobber, offer you and your ship a job . . .”

  “A charter?” asked Grimes.

  “Sort of,” said Kane.

  “What cargo, or cargoes?” Grimes persisted.

  “What you can pick up,” Kane told him.

  For some reason he found this amusing. So did Lobenga, who laughed loudly. Even Baron Takada smiled.

  “Cards on the table, Grimesy-boy,” said Kane. “I’ll spill the beans and see if you’re ready to lick them up. If you aren’t now, you may be in a few days’ time, when you’re still stuck here, with bills piling up and nobody in any hurry at all to discharge your cargo. You may have heard that I’m assembling a fleet at Port Kane. Owner-masters, not too scrupulous, down on their luck . . .”

  “Like you,” said Grimes.

  “Not like me. I’m not down on my luck. But you are. There’s Pride of Erin, Captain O’Leary. And Agatha’s Ark, Captain Agatha Prinn. Spaceways Princess, Captain MacWhirter . . . All of ’em, like your Sister Sue, one-time Epsilon Class tramps in various stages of decrepitude. All of them armed. Oh, nothing heavy. A laser cannon, a quick-firing projectile cannon, a missile launcher. All of them with temporal precession synchronization controls fitted to their Mannschenn Drive units. Small arms, of course, for the boarding parties . . .”