Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III

by A Bertram Chandler

  “All right, Chief. She’s one of ours. I hope. Let her synchronize. But stay handy.”

  There was a brief, very brief period of disorientation. Outside the viewports the stars were still pulsating nebulosities—but against their backdrop, big and solid, was the Kalla ship. It was strange, Grimes thought not for the first time, how spaceship design varied from race to race. The insectoid Shaara, for example, with their vessels that could have been modeled on old-fashioned beehives . . . The Hallicheki, whose ships looked like metal eggs sitting in latticework eggcups—

  This was one such.

  Probably she had started life as a merchantman but she was far more heavily armed than any of the privateers, a real cruiser rather than an auxiliary cruiser. Her fighting capabilities, however, would depend as much upon the quality of her crew as upon that of her armament. Grimes, who tended at times to be a male chauvinist, thought that she would be able to take on a comparable warship of the Hegemony with a fair chance of success. He did wonder, though, how and where these fighting cocks had received the necessary training. Probably this had been financed, for some promised consideration, by the El Dorado Corporation.

  All officers were now in the control room.

  “Put out a call to Pride of Erin, Spaceways Princess and Agatha’s Ark, Mr. Stewart,” ordered Grimes. “Tell them that we are proceeding to Kalla under escort. Tell them, too, that the authority still rests with myself.”

  ***

  The squadron, with Karkoran still in watchful attendance, established itself in synchronous orbit about Kalla. Grimes had been told that none of the ships would be allowed to land but that he could make the descent in one of his boats for an audience with the Lord of the Roost. He talked with Captain Prinn by NST radio, told her that until his return she would be in charge of the little fleet. This did not go down at all well with Captain O’Leary. And Williams, left in command of Sister Sue during Grimes’ absence, was not pleased either. “You mean that she’s the commodore now, Skipper?”

  “I appointed her vice-commodore at the beginning of the trip, Mr. Williams.”

  “I thought that it was rear commodore, sir. And rear is junior to vice. Of course, I’m only a Dog Star Line man, not used to all these naval titles . . .”

  “Don’t try to be a space lawyer too, Billy. Captain Prinn, in my opinion, is the person most suitable to be my deputy. I called her the rear commodore because hers is the sternmost ship of the squadron.”

  “But I thought, sir, that during the commodore’s absence his second-in-command would be in charge.”

  “You’re in temporary command of Sister Sue, and that’s all. And that’s plenty. Should you want to get in touch with me, my wrist transceiver will be within effective range of the ship.”

  He went down to his cabin to pick up his best uniform cap, the one with the scrambled egg on the peak still untarnished, with the especially large horse-and-rider badge. Apart from that he was making no attempt at ceremonial dress. He was not in the Survey Service any longer—apart from that Reserve Commission which was a secret to all save Mayhew and Venner—and did not have in his wardrobe such finery as an epauleted frock coat, with sword belt and sword, or a gold-trimmed fore-and-aft hat. His shipboard shorts and shirt would have to do. He had made inquiries and learned that Port Kwakaar, near which the Lord of the Roost had his palace, was well within Kalla’s tropics.

  Williams accompanied him to the boat bay. Mayhew, wearing a uniform that looked as though he had slept in it, was awaiting him there. So was the Countess of Walshingham. Her shirt and shorts could have been tailored by one of the big Paris houses. Her cat—that evil beast!—was with her.

  Grimes said, “We are not taking that down with us, Ms. Walshingham.”

  “Why not, Commodore?”

  “Because I say so. In case you don’t know, the Hallicheki are an avian people. There’s a strong possibility that they may not like your pet, and an equally strong one that your pet will not like them. It is vitally important that we do not annoy the planetary ruler. I have to get the Letters of Marque from him for a start. And I want to get permission for the ships to land to take aboard such stores as are necessary.”

  “Birdseed?” she sneered. “Or nice, fat worms?”

  He said, “If Commodore Kane had not requested that I take you with me you would be staying aboard. Commodore Kane said nothing about the cat.”

  “Go to my cabin,” she told the . . . animal? “Go to my cabin and wait for me.”

  It made a noise that was more growl than mew, stalked out of the boat bay. Sulkily the Countess clambered into the fat torpedo hull of the boat. Mayhew followed her. Grimes, after saying, “She’s all yours, Mr. Williams. Don’t start any wars in my absence!” went in last. He found that the fourth officer was already seated forward, at the controls. He resisted the urge to tell her to get aft, with the telepath. After all, she was a qualified spaceperson. And he was a captain—no, a commodore—and as such should not be doing his own chauffeuring.

  The Countess seemed to be capable enough.

  She sealed the little spacecraft and made the necessary checks. She reported readiness to depart to the control room.

  “Shove off when ready,” came Venner’s voice from the transceiver. The little inertial drive unit grumbled, then snarled. Ahead of the boat the door in the shell plating opened, exposing the chamber, from which the air had already been evacuated, to space, to a view of black, starry sky and the curved, luminous limb of the planet, glowing greenly.

  The inertial drive almost screamed as the Countess made a needlessly abrupt departure from Sister Sue, the sudden acceleration forcing Grimes and Mayhew back in their seats.

  “We are not a guided missile, Ms. Walshingham,” said Grimes sternly when he had recovered his breath.

  “Time, Commodore, is money,” she said. “As soon as we get those Letters of Marque we shall be able to start making a profit.”

  Probably, thought Grimes, she was a shareholder in the El Dorado Corporation—and as money hungry as the rest of them.

  Chapter 42

  PORT KWAKAAR WAS, in some ways, just another spaceport. In other ways it was exotic. The administration buildings, for example, were domes that looked as though they had been woven from straw, and the control tower was a huge tree on top of which another such nest was perched. There were ships on the apron—not only Hallicheki vessels but a couple of the Commission’s Epsilon Class star tramps. There were mooring masts to which were tethered sausage-shaped balloons below which were slung flimsy-looking baskets. There were Kallans in the air, male birds to judge from their gaudy plumage. These gave the descending boat a wide berth.

  “Sister Sue’s small craft,” squawked a voice from the transceiver speaker, “land by the beacon. Land by the beacon.”

  The Countess acknowledged, then slammed the boat down alongside the tripod atop which a bright, scarlet light was flashing. Grimes winced. On the return trip to the mother ship, he decided, he would take the controls himself—and if dear Wally didn’t like it she could go and cry on the Green Hornet’s shoulder.

  “Open up, Ms. Walshingham,” he ordered.

  He was first out of the boat and saw two figures walking toward him, one human, one Hallicheki, both male. The man was dressed in an expensive looking grey coverall suit, the bird only in his brilliant plumage. Grimes recalled a dictum of his academy days: If it moves, salute it; if it doesn’t move, polish it.

  So he saluted.

  The man inclined his head in reply. The bird lifted his right wing, on the end of which was a claw-like hand.

  “Commodore Grimes?” asked the human, the faint disdain in his voice and on his fine-featured face conveying the impression that, as far as he was concerned, commodores were six a penny.

  “Yes,” said Grimes.

  “I am Lord Francis Delamere, Ambassador for El Dorado on Kalla.”

  “Delamere?” asked Grimes. “I know two Delameres. Cousins. One is a Commander—probably
a Captain by now—in the Federation Survey Service. The other is a Dog Star Line Company Commodore.”

  “Indeed? Younger sons of younger sons of younger sons, possibly. But let us not waste time talking about obscure members of my family—if, indeed, they are members.”

  “There is a strong facial resemblance, Lord Francis.”

  “Indeed? You will leave your boat here, Commodore Grimes, and you and your officers will be taken to the palace of the Lord of the Roost by airship . . .”

  “In one of those things, Franky?” demanded the Countess, who had just disembarked. “You must be out of your tiny mind!”

  “In one of those things, Wally,” said Lord Delamere coldly. “When in Rome, do as Rome does.”

  “And when in Baghdad,” added Grimes, “do as the Baghdaddies do.”

  Not only did Delamere and the Countess and the Kallan look at him coldly, so did Mayhew.

  “Come!” ordered the avian and set off toward the mooring masts with an odd scuttling motion, the tips of his claws/hands just brushing the ground. The humans followed him toward the mooring masts, to a flimsy-looking ladder that was propped against the basket of one of the balloons. Delamere was first up this and as soon as his weight was in the car the aerostat started to fall. He threw out a bag of some sort of ballast—sand or earth to judge by the sound that it made when it hit the concrete—and restored buoyancy. Grimes was next, and did his own ballast dumping. Mayhew followed him, then the Countess. It was obvious that she had no intention of doing any manual work so Grimes had to oblige.

  Five dejected-looking hens, their drab plumage dusty, appeared. The cock bird picked up lines that were made fast to the car at one end, trailing on the ground at the other, and attached them with cliphooks to collars about the scrawny necks of four of the females. The fifth one climbed clumsily up the latticework mooring mast and, using her beak, cast loose the line securing the nose of the balloon to the skeletal tower. Delamere threw out another bag of ballast, a small one. The male took to the air, his wings beating strongly, squawking orders in his own language. The females flapped their pinions and lifted, straining against the towlines. The untethered bird lifted too, flying abeam of and a few meters distant from the basket. She turned her head to glare at the occupants. If looks could kill they would all have died at once.

  It was not a comfortable ride. There was no seating inside the car and its last use, to judge by a lingering, acrid odor, must have been for the carriage of organic fertilizer. There was a swaying motion and, now and again, jouncing as minor turbulence was encountered. The treetops beneath them, viciously spiked coronals with leaves like bayonets, looked far too close. The air through which they passed was heavy, hot and humid.

  And then, ahead of them, on the summit of a low hill was the palace of the Lord of the Roost, a towering structure that could have been made of wickerwork but which gleamed metallically, pierced at intervals with circular ports. The hapless hens fought to gain altitude. Grimes suggested to Delamere that more ballast might be dumped. Delamere told Grimes that he was a spaceman, not an airman, and that, in any case, any attempt to make the work of the towing team easier would be frowned upon by the male Kallans.

  “You have to remember,” he said, “that these hens are being punished for the crimes that they committed when they were the rulers.”

  The male bird, well in the lead by now, flew into a port at the very summit of the tower. The free female followed him but did not enter the building and perched on a protruding spar. The balloon labored ahead and upward. When it was close enough the hen dropped from her perch, swooped down and caught the dangling mooring line in her beak, flew with it to the pole on which she had been sitting, made it fast. Grimes watched proceedings with great interest mingled with apprehension. He could foresee what he categorized as one helluva tangle. But he need not have worried. Delamere, who knew the drill, unsnapped the towlines from the forward end of the car as they slackened, threw them out and clear. The hens flapped wearily groundward. The breeze, such as it was, was just enough to push the balloon in toward the building, although there was no actual contact.

  “Do they expect us to jump?” demanded the Countess.

  Grimes had been just about to ask the same question.

  He could see movement inside the circular opening. From it a gangway was pushed out, an affair of woven slats that did not look as though it would support a healthy cat. But it was rigid enough and did not sag sufficiently to make contact with the basket rim.

  “You first, Commodore,” said Delamere. “I have to stay to valve gas.”

  Carefully Grimes clambered out of the car until he was kneeling on the flimsy gangway. He was tempted to make the short passage to the safety of the tower on his hands and knees. There was no handrail of any kind. But to crawl to an audience with the Lord of the Roost would not, he knew, enhance his image. He pushed up and did a little jump forward. He was standing. He did not look down. He knew that as long as he walked toward a light that gleamed in the very center of the port he would be safe. (He knew it—but he did not quite believe it.) He walked, fighting down the temptation to break into a near run, to get it over with as quickly as possible. He proceeded with befitting dignity until a sidewise glance told him that he was in safety.

  Then he turned to watch the others cross the perilous bridge.

  He hoped that he had not looked so unhappy as the Countess and Mayhew were looking. Lord Delamere, after valving a last dribble of gas, sauntered across exuding insouciance.

  Chapter 43

  GRIMES SUPPOSED that the dimly lit apartment into which they were led could be called a throne room. There was no throne, however. There was a horizontal bar at human eye level on which the Kallan leader was roosting, gripping the perch with his huge, clawed feet. There were other bars at lower levels on which lesser dignitaries stood (sat?). All the avians were males, brightly plumaged. Among the feathers of some of them precious metals and jewels reflected what little light there was, seemed to concentrate it before throwing it back. In one corner of the big room sophisticated recording equipment was humming almost inaudibly, panel lights gleaming. There was a rather unpleasant acridity in the air. Grimes managed to restrain himself from sneezing. The Countess did not even make an effort.

  “Your Winged Mightiness,” said Lord Delamere, “I present to you the privateer commodore and his officers.”

  The Lord of the Roost squawked derisively, “He is a cock, and he has a hen officer!”

  “She is only a very junior officer, Mightiness.”

  “She may remain, but she will keep silent.” The glaring, yellow eyes turned to Grimes. “I am told that you have an offer to make to me, Commodore. Speak.”

  “Your Winged Mightiness,” Grimes began. He tried to think of what to say next. He had assumed that Lord Delamere would be doing the haggling, would already have done the haggling. “I have come,” he went on, “to offer my services, the services of myself and my ships. I have learned that Kalla is threatened by the Hegemony. Your own fleet, gallant though it is, will be fully employed protecting your world.” He paused for thought. “Warfare is more than actions between opposing fleets of warships. There is economic warfare . . .”

  “Are you a spaceman or a banker?” demanded the great bird.

  “I am a spaceman, Mightiness. Perhaps my words were ill chosen. By economic warfare I mean the destruction of the enemy’s commerce . . .”

  “Which you will do for your profit.” The Lord of the Roost emitted a discordant sound that could have been a laugh. “But do not bother me any more with your talk, Commodore. You are a spaceman, not a salesman. I have seen you now, as well as having heard many reports about you. The Lord Delamere has already made the deal on your behalf. You will harry Hallicheki shipping, for the benefit of the El Dorado Corporation and, of course, for your own benefit. The Letters of Marque have been drawn up. You will be fighting for money, whereas our ships will be fighting for Kalla’s freedom from the harsh ru
le of the Hegemony. Korndah will give you your precious papers, then you may go.”

  One of the lesser birds hopped down from his perch, scuttled to a very prosaic looking filing cabinet that was standing beside the recording apparatus, opened a drawer, used his beak to withdraw a bundle of documents. He hopped/shuffled to Grimes, dropped the papers into the commodore’s hands. Grimes removed the elastic band securing them. He tried to read what was on the top one but in the dim light it was impossible.

  “Do not worry, Commodore,” squawked the Lord of the Roost. “All is in order. You can read the authority that I have given you at your leisure. Now you may go, back to your ships, and commence operations as soon as possible.”

  “Your Mightiness,” said Grimes, “there is one favor that I wish to ask of you.”

  “Speak.”

  “I request permission for the fleet to land and to replenish certain items of consumable stores.”

  “The permission is not granted. You can replenish your storerooms from those of your victims.”

  “But I also want to top up the water tanks. On leaving El Dorado I ordered an exercise in the use of reaction drive. As a result of that our stocks of reaction mass have been reduced.”

  “I am not a spacebeing, Commodore.” The Lord of the Roost gabbled briefly in his own language to one of his aides, received a raucous reply. Then, “Very well. I am told that in warfare the rocket drive, the reaction drive, might be employed. Your fleet may come in to the spaceport at first light tomorrow morning, and will depart as soon as the tanks have been topped up.”

  “Thank you, Mightiness,” said Grimes.

  “Oh, one more thing, Commodore. Do not trust hens.”