Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III

by A Bertram Chandler

  Grimes made to put the hymn sheets and the other literature down on the table.

  “Keep all the paper, Captain,” she said. “You may be needing it.” She laughed softly. “It’ll please old Florry no end if she thinks you’re holding revival meetings aboard your ship. And now . . .”

  She shook the bag suggestively.

  The smallest money that Grimes had on him was a fifty-credit bill. He sighed as he made his contribution to the good cause. He wondered who else had contributed, managed to peek inside the bag and saw that, apart from his note, it was empty.

  The Countess stood at the door bidding her guests good night.

  “Please come again . . .”

  “Not bloody likely,” was a too audible whisper from the Green Hornet.

  “It was so nice having you.”

  “That’s what you think.” muttered somebody, Denning, Grimes thought.

  “And you have seen, now, what good work we do among the disadvantaged, how we have raised a backward people to full civilization . . .”

  “I’m crying for the Carolines,” Grimes could not resist saying.

  “But there is no need for you to cry for them now, Captain. They have been saved, saved. Good night, good night, and bless you all!”

  Grimes, at last tearing himself away to board the air car, was met by the hostile stares of his officers.

  ***

  Back aboard the ship he told an amused and sympathetic Billy Williams what the evening had been like, enjoyed coffee and real sandwiches with him and Magda before going up to his quarters. Mayhew joined him there.

  “Well,” growled Grimes, “what did you make of it?”

  The telepath grinned. “The Countess is genuine enough, in her way. She’s not the first example of a too wealthy woman who’s tried to buy her way into heaven. Too, the missionaries have opened up New Caroline to exploitation—which has been a good thing for the El Dorado Corporation.”

  “Those girls,” demanded Grimes. “And this bumf . . .”

  He pulled the hymn sheets and the brochure from his pocket, threw the papers down on the coffee table.

  “The girls,” said Mayhew, “were both spies and recruiting agents. They were circulating among the juniors, subtly sounding them out, not so subtly promising them a good time if the ship should come to Port Kane.” He picked up the brochure, leafed through it to the picture of a dancer. “Recognize her?”

  “Mphm. She was the one carrying the collection bag around, wasn’t she? Who’d ever have thought that she was like that under the frumpish black dress?”

  “Never judge a parcel by its wrapping,” said Mayhew philosophically.

  “Clothes make the woman what she really isn’t,” countered Grimes. “That cuts both ways.”

  “Too true. Anyhow, Captain, before long the boys will be asking why you can’t shift ship to Port Kane where there’s some real action. Too, I have the feeling that your old friend Commodore Kane will be calling around shortly, promising to expedite discharge if you agree to join his private navy. I suggest that you convey the impression that (a) you could use some money, preferably in great, coarse hunks . . .”

  “You can say that again, Mr. Mayhew!”

  “ . . . and (b) that you’re craving a spot of excitement.”

  “Which I’m not.”

  “Aren’t you, sir? And, in any case, I should not need to remind you that you are acting under Survey Service orders as much as Mr. Venner and myself are. Your job, for which you are being paid a four-ring captain’s salary and allowance . . .”

  “I haven’t seen the money yet.”

  “You—or your estate—will receive it as a lump sum when the mission has been brought to its conclusion. You are being paid, as I say, to infiltrate, and then to contrive an incident.”

  “All right, all right. I have to take the plunge some time. I just don’t want to appear too eager.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mayhew, “you should allow the Princess von Stolzberg to talk you around. That would be in character.”

  “Would it?” demanded Grimes. “Would it? I think that you had better go now, Mr. Mayhew.”

  Chapter 30

  GRIMES WAS FINISHING a late breakfast—almost always he took this meal in his own quarters—when the telephone buzzed. He thought that it would be one of his officers wishing to tell him something.

  “Captain here,” he said, facing the instrument.

  The little screen came alive. To his surprise it was the face of Drongo Kane looking out at him. He thought, at first, that the piratical commodore was aboard the ship, was calling from the mate’s or the purser’s office. That tin Port Captain had told him that it would not be possible for the ship’s telephones to be hooked up with the El Doradan planetary communications system. But the background scenery was wrong. None of the bulkheads in Sister Sue’s accommodation was covered with blue wallpaper on which, embossed in gold, was a floral design.

  He said, “How did you get through to me? I was told that I could use the ship’s telephones only to talk to the port office.”

  “We can make calls to you,” said Kane smugly. Then, “I hope that you and your merry crew enjoyed last night’s outing.”

  “Ha!” growled Grimes. “Ha, bloody ha!”

  “Your people,” Kane went on, “would be far happier at the spaceport that the corporation, in recognition of my services, named after me. And you’d be much happier too, knowing that your ship was earning money again. Once she’s on charter she gets paid, even when she’s sitting on her big, fat arse, at my spaceport, waiting for the balloon to go up.”

  “I’m thinking about it,” said Grimes grudgingly.

  “Just don’t be too long making your mind up, Grimesy-boy. Until you do there’ll be no cargo worked—and then only if you make your mind up the right way. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”

  The screen went blank.

  Grimes poured a last cup of coffee, filled and lit his pipe. It was very fortunate, he thought, that Kane did not, as he did, have the services of a tame telepath. He had raised this point already with Mayhew, had been told that the El Doradans would not tolerate the presence on their world of anybody capable of prying into their precious minds.

  The telephone buzzed again.

  “Captain here,” he told it.

  It was another outside call. It was the Princess Marlene.

  “Good morning, John.” She laughed prettily. “I hear that you had a very boring time last night. I feel that I should offer some small compensation. Are you free today?”

  “I am, M . . . Sorry. Your Highness.”

  She smiled out at him. “Marlene would have been better. So you are free. Then I shall call for you at . . . 1100 hours? Will that be suitable? Good. Can you stay overnight at the Schloss? Excellent. Until eleven, then.”

  She faded from the screen.

  “Mphm?” grunted Grimes, recalling Mayhew’s advice. “Mphm.”

  He called for Williams.

  The chief officer, as soon as he set foot in Grimes’ cabin, started complaining.

  “I’ve been on the blower to that so-called Port Captain,” he said. “He—or it—just couldn’t tell me when any more cargo would be worked. You’ve your contacts here, sir. Can’t you do anything?”

  “Just be patient, Mr. Williams,” Grimes told him.

  “Patient, sir? You should have heard the growls over the breakfast table. And the engineers were waving those pamphlets about—you know, the advertising for all the fancy facilities at Port Kane. I told them what it would mean if we did shift ship there, the privateering and all the rest of it. They got interested and wanted to know if there was any money in it. And your pet, the Green Hornet, said, ‘Forget it! Our saintly captain would never dirty his hands with piracy! All that he’s fit for is dragging us to prayer meetings, like last night!’”

  “There have been pious pirates,” said Grimes. “One of my ancestors was one such. But tell me, what would your reaction be
if I accepted Commodore Kane’s offer of employment?”

  “I’d be with you, sir,” said the mate at last. “After all, privateering is not piracy. It’s legal. And there should be money in it. The way I understand it is that the people financing the venture—in this case the El Dorado Corporation—would be entitled to a large percentage of the take, the balance being divvied up among the crew, according to rank. Something like a salvage award . . .”

  “Sound people out, will you?” Grimes looked at the bulkhead clock. “And now, you’ll have to excuse me. I have to get packed.”

  “You’re leaving us, sir?”

  “Only for a day. The Princess von Stolzberg will be picking me up at eleven. I shall be staying at the Schloss Stolzberg overnight. You’ll know where to find me if anything horrid happens.”

  “Will do, Skipper. And so Her Highness has forgiven you for the swimming party . . . If you can’t be good, be careful.”

  “I’ll try,” said Grimes.

  ***

  He was waiting at the foot of the ramp when the Princess’s air car came in. It was not the gaily colored mechanical dragonfly in which he had ridden with her before, years ago. It was a far more sober vehicle, although conforming to the current El Doradan fad or fashion. “A Daimler . . .” whispered Williams reverently to his captain as the elegant black vehicle, its silver fittings gleaming in the late morning sun, came in to an almost noiseless landing.

  “A bloody hearse,” muttered Ms. Connellan. “It’s even got vultures following it!”

  But they were not, of course, vultures. The pair of watch-birds, circling alertly overhead, were more like ravens.

  Two doors of the car opened, one forward, one aft. The Princess, Grimes saw, was sitting in the front seat. She turned her head to smile at him invitingly. She looked softly maternal in a frilly pink dress—and yet there was more than a hint of the slim, golden girl whom Grimes had once known.

  He threw his overnight bag into the rear of the vehicle, wondering if he was doing the right thing as he made to board at the front end. Apparently he was; the inviting smile did not fade as he took his seat by his hostess.

  The doors closed.

  Marlene’s hands remained demurely folded on her lap, were not lifted to take the controls.

  “Home,” she ordered.

  The car lifted. Inside it was as silent as the pseudo-Rolls had been.

  ***

  She broke the silence, asking, “Do you remember the last time, John?”

  “Yes, Marlene.”

  “You will find little changed,” she told him. “The Croesus Mines are still in operation . . .”

  Yes, there was the low, spotlessly white building in the shallow, green valley. Below it, Grimes knew, were the fully automated subterranean workings. He wondered over how great an area these now extended.

  “And the Laredo Ranch . . . Senator Crocker is still playing at cowboys, rounding up his herds and all the rest of it. He’s conquered his prejudice against robot ranch hands now . . .”

  Looking down, Grimes saw that a round-up was in progress, a milling herd of red-brown cattle with horsemen keeping the beasts grouped together. Which one of them was Crocker and which were the robots? They all looked the same from up here.

  “Count Vitelli’s vineyards. His wines are improving all the time.”

  “The Baroness d’Estang,” said Grimes, “kept a good stock of them aboard her yacht, The Far Traveler . . .”

  “I still find it hard to understand,” she said, “how and why you—of all people!—became a yachtmaster. And to that woman, of all possible employers!”

  “Mphm.”

  “Some people,” she went on cattily, “think that she married beneath her. If anything, the reverse is the case. The Baron is descended from an English lord. He had no trouble at all establishing his claim to the title . . .”

  I wonder how much it cost him? thought Grimes.

  “And she, of course, is descended from a French pirate . . .”

  “A privateer,” said Grimes. He would have liked to have said, And you, my dear, are descended from German robber barons . . . He thought better of it. He would not bite the hand that, hopefully, was going to feed him.

  “A privateer,” she repeated. “What’s the difference? Oh, there is a difference now, of course. The Baron’s fleet will do nothing illegal. If I thought otherwise I would not have allowed Ferdinand to volunteer to serve as a liaison officer . . .”

  “Will Ferdinand be at the castle?” asked Grimes, half hoping and half fearing that the answer would be in the affirmative.

  “No. He is at Port Kane with the other El Doradan officers. Perhaps it is as well. It could be embarrassing if you met him in my company.” Her hands went up to the wheel, grasped it firmly. It was an indication, thought Grimes, that she was determined to control the course of events. “And it will be as well, John, if he never knows that you are his father.”

  “Will he be seconded to my ship?” asked Grimes. “Assuming, that is,” he added hastily, “that I join the enterprise.”

  “No. If he were it is possible that the relationship would become public knowledge. He will be attached to Agatha’s Ark, under Captain Agatha Prinn. A strange woman, John, but, I believe, a highly competent spaceperson. Meanwhile, I understand that Baron Kane intends to appoint you commodore of the privateers. As you will be in overall charge you will be able to keep a watchful eye on my son. Our son.”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” said Grimes, “if I’m going to take Kane’s offer.”

  “But you will,” she said.

  She relinquished her hold on the wheel so that she could point ahead. There, on a hilltop, was the grim, grey pile, a castle that was straight out of a book of Teutonic mythology. Schloss Stolzberg. As before, Grimes wondered how much it had cost to transport it, stone by numbered stone, from Earth. I wish that somebody would give me a job like that, he thought. He tried to arrive at a rough estimate of what the freight charges would have been.

  Chapter 31

  SLOWLY, SMOOTHLY, the car drifted down to a landing in the central courtyard, dropping past flagpoles from which snapped and fluttered heavy standards, golden heraldic beasts rampant on fields of purple, past turrets and battlemented walls, down to the grey, rough flagstones. From somewhere came the baying of hounds. Then as the doors of the vehicle opened, there was a high, clear trumpet call, a flourish of drums.

  “Welcome, again, to Schloss Stolzberg,” said the Princess.

  “It hasn’t changed,” said Grimes.

  “Why should it have done so, John?” she asked.

  To this there was no reply.

  He got out of his seat, stepped to the ground, then helped the Princess down. Her hand was pleasantly warm and smooth in his. She thanked him, then turned to address the car.

  “We shall not be needing you again,” she told it. “You can put yourself to bed.”

  A melodious toot from the vehicle’s horn was the reply. The thing lifted, its inertial drive unit purring almost inaudibly. It flew toward a doorway that suddenly and silently opened in the rough stone wall, then quietly closed behind it.

  She put her hand in the crook of his left arm, guided him to a tall, arched portal. The valves were of some dark timber, heavily iron studded, and as they moved on their ponderous hinges they creaked loudly. Grimes did not think, as he had his first time here, that this was an indication of inefficiency on the part of the castle’s robot staff. Those hinges, he had been told, were meant to creak. It was all part of the atmosphere.

  They were in the main hall now, a huge barn of a place but, unlike a real barn, cheerless. Only a little daylight stabbed through the high, narrow windows and the flaring torches and the fire that blazed in the enormous hearth did little more than cast a multiplicity of confused, flickering shadows. Ranged along the walls were what, at first glance, looked like space suited men standing at rigid attention. But it was not space armor; these empty suits had been worn by men of
Earth’s Middle Ages. By men? By knights and barons and princes, rather; in those days the commonality had gone into battle with only thick leather (if that) as a partial protection. Marlene’s ancestors had fought their petty wars ironclad. Grimes wondered what they would think if they could watch their daughter being squired by a man who, in their day, would have been only a humble tiller of the fields or, in battle, a fumbling pikeman fit only to be ridden down by a charge of metal-accoutered so-called chivalry.

  Grimes, you’re an inverted snob! he chided himself.

  She led him across the hall, past a long, heavy banqueting table with rows of high-backed chairs on either side. She took the seat at the head of it, occupied it as though it were the throne it looked like. In her overly feminine ruffled pink dress she should have struck a note of utter incongruity, but she did not. She was part of the castle and the castle was part of her.

  She motioned Grimes to the chair at her right hand. It was far more comfortable than it looked. He saw that a decanter of heavy glass had been set out on the table and with it two glittering, cut-crystal goblets. Marlene poured the dark ruby wine with an oddly ceremonial gesture.

  She raised her glass to him, sipped.

  Grimes followed suit. He remembered that on that past occasion she had given him Angel’s Blood from Wilsonia, one of the worlds of the Denebian system. She was giving him Angel’s Blood again. It was a superb wine, although a little too sweet for his taste. It was also far too expensive for his pocket. Even duty free and with no freight charges it was forty credits a bottle.

  She said softly, “I’d like to think that we’re drinking to us. Do you remember how, years ago, I told you that you could come back here to live, to become a citizen, when you had your first billion credits?”

  “I remember,” said Grimes. (That was not among his happier memories.)

  “You’re a shipowner now, not a penniless Survey Service lieutenant . . .”

  “And I’m still not worth a billion C.”

  “But you could be, John. If the privateering venture is successful.”