Ride the Star Winds

by A Bertram Chandler

  Williams would do all right, he thought, despite his initial diffidence, even though the ex-mate had made it plain that he had hoped that Grimes would be along in an advisory capacity.

  (“The old ship won’t be the same without you, skipper,” he had said. Then, “I’ll look after her for you. You’ll be back. I know you will.” And Grimes had thought, But ten years is a long time.)

  And now Sister Sue was up and away, outbound for Caribbea with a cargo of manufactured goods, everything from robotutors to robutterflies, the beautiful little devices that had been developed to deal, lethally and expeditiously, with flying insect pests. (They would sell well enough, Grimes thought, while the craze lasted.) Her discharge completed she would go on Time Charter to the Interstellar Transport Commission, carrying anything and everything anywhere and everywhere.

  At least, thought Grimes, Williams had a good crew. Magda Granadu was still Catering Officer/Purser and the two old-timers, Crumley and Stewart, were still Reaction Drive Chief and Radio Officer respectively. The other engineers, Reaction Drive and Mannschenn Drive, were real space engineers, not refugees from universities and bicycle shops. (Their predecessors, together with their false memories, had been given passage back to Austral.) The Chief, Second and Third Officers were all young, properly qualified and actually employees of the Commission which, by the terms of the charter party, was required to supply necessary personnel.

  So that was that.

  Ex-Captain Grimes, ex-Company Commodore Grimes, soon-to-be-Governor Grimes climbed into the ground car that had been waiting to take him to the airport from where he would fly to Alice Springs to spend a few days with his parents before leaving for Liberia.

  They met him in the waiting room at the base of the mooring mast.

  Grimes senior, a tall, white-haired old man, greeted his son with enthusiasm. “I envy you, John,” he said. “I really do. I just write about adventures; you have them!”

  Matilda Grimes—also tall, red-haired and pleasantly horse-faced—frowned disapprovingly. “Don’t encourage him, George. Ever since he left the Survey Service he’s been doing nothing but getting into trouble, I hoped to see him become an admiral one day. I never dreamed that he’d become a pirate.” She turned on her son. “And what do you intend to do now, John? You’ve had your Certificate taken from you . . .”

  “Only suspended,” said her husband.

  She ignored this. “You’ll never command a ship again, not even a merchant vessel. And after that trial. . . .”

  “Court of Inquiry, my dear.”

  “. . . nobody will ever employ you.”

  “As a matter of fact, Matilda,” Grimes said, “I shall shortly be going out to take up a new appointment.”

  “What as?” asked Grimes’s father.

  “Governor, as a matter of fact. Of Liberia.”

  “I’ve always thought,” said his mother, “that the standard of intelligence in the World Assembly is appallingly low. Now I am sure of it. And I’ve never trusted Bendeen. Any man who would give up a career in the Survey Service for one in politics must have something wrong with him. Appointing a pirate as governor. . . .”

  “There are precedents,” said George Whitley Grimes. “Sir Henry Morgan, for example.” He realized that the other people in the lounge were looking curiously at the small family party and said, “I suggest that we continue this discussion at home.”

  The robutler brought in drinks. The Old Man must be doing well, thought Grimes. The machine was one of the very latest models, a beautifully proportioned and softly gleaming cylinder moving on silent treads rather than something unconvincingly humanoid. From a circular port midway up the thing’s body a sinuous tentacle produced the drinks ordered—dry sherry, chilled, for Matilda Grimes, a pink gin for Grimes and beer for his father. A dish of assorted nuts, placed on the coffee table, followed.

  “Here’s to crime,” toasted George Whitley Grimes, raising his glass.

  “I’ll not drink to that!” snapped his wife. Nonetheless she gulped rather than sipped from hers.

  Grimes sampled his pink gin. He could not have mixed a better one himself.

  He said, “You seem very prosperous, George.”

  “Yes. It was that If Of History novel.”

  “The Ned Kelly idea that you were telling me about the last time that I was here?”

  “No. The one after that, based on the Australian Constitutional Crisis. If Gough Whitlam, the Prime Minister, had refused to relinquish office after the Governor General fired him. . . .”

  “Don’t go putting ideas into his head,” admonished Matilda. “The last time that he was here the pair of you talked about privateering and piracy—and look what happened! The next thing we hear will be that he’s fired the President of Liberia!”

  “Perhaps I shall,” murmured Grimes. “Perhaps I shall. . . .”

  His father looked at him intently over the rim of his condensation-beaded glass. He said softly, “Tell me, John, did you really leave the Survey Service?”

  “I did.”

  “Did they call you back?”

  “Did they?” pressed his mother, suddenly alert.

  It was useless, he knew, to try to lie to her.

  He said, “No comment.”

  “And isn’t it true,” his father went on, “that after your piratical antics a bill was pushed through the Assembly making privateering illegal anywhere in the Federation of Worlds?”

  “You read, watch and listen to the media, George.”

  “I do. And there have been some nasty rumors recently about Liberia. But you can’t tell us anything, can you?”

  “I can’t. And I think that you’d both be wise to keep your suspicions to yourself.”

  “We shall,” promised his father. “But I shall be tempted, mind you, to give them an airing in a novel.”

  “Please don’t. The El Dorado Corporation might add two and two to make five and then be after my blood.”

  “All right.” The older man finished his beer and, ignoring his wife’s frown, demanded a refill from the robutler. “And now, young John, I am going to put an idea into your head—one that even Matilda will approve of. You’re really a spaceman, aren’t you? That’s all you want to be, ever will want to be. And you don’t want to wait ten years to get your Certificate back—especially when you’ve a ship of your own of which you should be the captain. You’ll be governor, of a world called Liberia. When in Liberia do as the original Liberians did. . . .”

  He talked, drawing upon his historical knowledge.

  Grimes listened intently, as did his mother.

  When his father was finished Grimes grinned happily. “It could work,” he said. “By all the Odd Gods, I’ll make it work!”

  “But you will have to finish the job that you’re being sent out to do,” said his mother, frowning worriedly. “You’ll have to finish that job first.”

  “Of course,” Grimes assured her. “Of course.”

  Chapter 4

  Grimes took one of the regular airships to Sydney and then a ramjet to New York. The World Assembly was housed in the old UN Building which, miraculously, had survived all the troubles that had plagued the city since the United Nations had taken up residence there. Staring down at Manhattan as the jet descended to the airport Grimes wondered what it had looked like during the days of its glory. He had seen photographs, of course, but would have liked to have been able to recognize, in actuality, such fabled towers as the Empire State and World Trade Buildings; the ornamental lakes that occupied their sites were all very well but, from the air, were no more than irregular puddles of blue water. But there was the Brooklyn Bridge, rebuilt only recently to the old design. And that must be the Chrysler Building. . . . It was too bad that this was to be a brief business visit only.

  An official World Assembly car was waiting for him and whisked him swiftly to the Assembly’s headquarters. He was expected there; a young officer in a smart, sky-blue uniform escorted him along moving
ways and up escalators, delivered him to the office of the Protector of the Colonies.

  Bendeen—a slim man, not overly tall, gray-haired and with a heavily lined face—came from behind his littered desk to greet Grimes. The WA lieutenant withdrew and the door automatically closed behind him.

  “So you’re the famous—or notorious—Grimes,” said Bendeen. “All right. You can admit it. This office is bugproof—or so the experts loaned to me by Rear Admiral Damien assure me. We can talk. Officially, as you may have learned, I was pressured into finding you a job. In actuality you were strongly recommended to me by the Rear Admiral. Drink?” What Grimes had taken for just another filing cabinet detached itself from the wall, rolled up to them on silent casters. A tray was extruded from it; on it were two glasses of what looked like pink gin. “As you see, Governor, I share your taste in tipples. Your very good health.”

  “And yours, Protector,” Grimes replied.

  (His father’s robutler, Grimes thought, was much better at mixing drinks than this thing of Bendeen’s.)

  “You’re booked out, Grimes, on Sobraon. The VIP suite, of course. She lifts from Port Woomera tomorrow so that means another ramjet flight for you. Can’t say that I envy you. I hate those things. If God had meant us to fly He’d have given us an ample supply of non-flammable, lighter-than-air gas. Which, of course, He did. But where was I? Oh, yes. Your commission as Governor. It’s on the desk somewhere. Ah, here it is. A splendid example of the engraver’s art with eagles and dragons and hammers and sickles and lions and unicorns and hammers and sickles and rising suns and . . . oh, yes, emus and kangaroos all over it. And the Grand Seal of the Assembly. No not a seal, but a seal. Red wax, you know. And your name, in Gothic script. It’ll look fine when you have it framed on the wall of your gubernatorial office. . . .”

  “Isn’t there any sort of swearing in ceremony?” asked Grimes, at last getting a word in edgewise.

  “You’ll have to wait until Libertad—that’s the capital of Liberia—for that. I’m told that the president likes to put on shows to impress the oppressed masses. And they are oppressed, you know. Not only is there the hard, manual work for precious little pay but there’re all the lucrative rackets indulged in by Bardon’s boys. I don’t know what Bardon’s got on von Tempsky but, as far as VT is concerned, the colonel can do no wrong. I’ve tried to have him replaced but the Field Marshal piles on more Gs with the Lord Protector than I do. So I’m relying on you to catch Bardon with his hand in the till—or in the pocket of one of the indentured laborers. From what Damien has told me about you you’re used to playing by ear. And you’re a sort of catalyst. Things sort of happen all around you and, more often than not, you turn them to your advantage.

  “There’s a case waiting for you at the airport with plenty of light reading for your voyage—spools and spools of it. The VIP suite, of course, has a playmaster. You’ll get a good idea of the world you’re going to—history from the first settlement to the present. And now, finish your drink. The car’s waiting to take us out to Kennedy. Don’t forget the commission—there’s a case for it somewhere. Ah, here . . .”

  They emerged from the Protector’s office into the corridor. Bendeen’s manner changed, became stiff, hostile even. He said, as they passed through the door, “. . . this appointment was none of my choosing. But you are now the Governor—until such time as you are relieved.”

  Which will not be soon enough, implied the Protector’s expression.

  Grimes took the hint. This corridor must be well-covered by audio-visual bugs. He kept his distance from the Protector, set his face into sullen lines. The two men maintained their charade until they shook hands, with a marked lack of enthusiasm, at the airport and Grimes boarded the ramjet for Woomera.

  Chapter 5

  The master of the Trans-Galactic Clipper Sobraon was well-accustomed to the carriage of Very Important Passengers and to playing the urbane and courteous host. VIPs who were also ex-pirates were, however, outside his normal experience. He had heard of Grimes—who among the spacefaring community had not?—and had never been among his admirers. Even as a small boy he had not considered pirates and privateers glamorous; as a shipmaster he regarded them as vicious and dangerous criminals. When he had been shown his passenger list for the forthcoming voyage, with the names of those worthy of special attention marked with a star, he had stared at it incredulously.

  “Not the Grimes?” he had demanded of his purser.

  “I’m afraid so, sir,” she had replied.

  “But . . . A governor . . . Can’t you be mistaken, Liz? Surely there must be more than one John Grimes in this universe.”

  “Not with jug-handle ears. His photograph was among all the others in the Security parcel.”

  “But he was on trial for piracy.”

  “A Court of Inquiry, sir, not a trial.”

  “Even so, he had his Certificate dealt with. The judge and the assessors must have thought that he was guilty of something. And with good reason. And am I supposed to have him at my table?”

  “With all the other VIPs.” She grinned. “At least he’ll be less boring than the others.”

  He scowled at her. “The man’s a pirate, with blood on his hands. Get this straight, Liz, I don’t want you and your tabbies fawning on him as though he were the latest tridi heart-throb. All that concerns us is that we’re to deliver him from Port Woomera to Port Libertad with celerity and enjoying a far greater standard of luxury than he deserves. If I had my way I’d put him in one of the J Deck dogboxes!”

  “You still could, sir. You’re the master.”

  “Ha! And how long should I stay in one of the Line’s senior ships if I did that? He must be treated correctly. Liz—with icy correctness. Convey subtly that any respect accorded to him is to his rank, not to himself. But subtly, Liz, subtly. Perfect service—but without the personal touch. The liquid hydrogen hand in the velvet glove . . .”

  “Is velvet a good insulator, sir?”

  “How the hell should I know? That will do, Liz; you’ve plenty to look after.”

  When the girl was gone he rang for his chief officer and then issued to that gentleman instructions as to how the VIP was to be treated.

  Sobraon lifted from Port Woomera, slowly at first and then with increasing velocity as the thrust of her inertial drive built up. Grimes was a guest in the liner’s control room, such courtesy often being extended to senior astronauts traveling as passengers and to civilian VIPs. He strongly suspected that the invitation had been extended to him in the second capacity. He looked out through the viewports at the fast receding scenery—to one side the semi-desert with its green rectangles of irrigated land, crisscrossed with silvery canals, to the other the dark sea with, far to the southward, the white glimmer of the Antarctic ice barrier. Twice recently he had been on Earth, he thought, and on neither occasion had he paid a visit to the Space Academy in Antarctica. The first time he might have done so, as a graduate who, despite the circumstances of his resignation from the Survey Service, was now a successful shipowner. On the second occasion it might not have been politic. A privateer-turned-pirate would hardly have been regarded by the Commandant as an Old Boy whose career should be emulated by the cadets.

  He heard one of the officers whispering to another, “I wonder what he’s thinking about? Is he working out how he could skyjack the ship?”

  He looked around to see who it was. It must have been Kelner, the liner’s chief officer, who flushed and turned away hastily as Grimes’s eye caught his. The ponderously portly Captain Harringby must, too, have heard that whisper—but the expression on his heavy face was approving rather than otherwise. Then the shipmaster looked at Grimes who, although no telepath, could tell what he was thinking. I invited you up here only because Company Regulations require that I give you the VIP treatment. But I don’t have to like you.

  Grimes shrugged. So he was persona non grata. So what? It was not for the first time in his life, almost certainly would not be
for the last. He would stick it out, seated stolidly in the spare chair. He would, after trajectory had been set, graciously accept the invitation, no matter how grudgingly offered, to partake of the ritual drink with the captain and his senior officers. Throughout the voyage to Liberia he would be the very model of a modern Governor General. (All right, all right, he told himself irritably, I know that it should be Major General and, in any case, I’m only a Governor. He looked at Harringby, smugly omnipotent in his command chair, and thought, And I’d sooner be a shipmaster again.)

  Trajectory was set (competently enough, Grimes admitted) and Sobraon was falling down the warped continuum on the first leg of her passage, Earth to Liberia. (This was, actually, no more than a deviation; Trans-Galactic Clippers specialized in carrying rich passengers around the truly glamorous worlds of the Galaxy—to Caribbea, with its warm seas and lush, tropical islands, to Atlantia for the big game fishing and the ocean yacht races, to Morrowvia, with its exotic cat people, to New Venusberg, with its entertainments to suit all warped tastes, to Waverley, with its reconstruction of a Scottish culture that owed more to myth than to actual history, to Electra, where those of a scientific bent could feast their eyes on the latest marvels.)

  Trajectory was set, the powerful gyroscopes pulling the ship around her axes until the target star was ahead, then making the necessary adjustment for galactic drift. (Grimes flexed his idle hands on the arm rests of his chair, for so long he had been doing what Captain Harringby was doing now, it seemed—it was!—all wrong that he was no longer doing it.) The Mannschenn Drive was actuated. Deep in the bowels of the great ship the rotors began to turn, to spin, to precess, to tumble down and through the warped dimensions as the temporal precession field built up.