Ride the Star Winds

by A Bertram Chandler

  Grimes stared.

  These, obviously, were the servants—but a mob like this to look after one man, even though he was a governor!

  He voiced his disapproving surprise.

  It was the chauffeur who made reply. He said smugly, “The Residence is a large building, Your Excellency. Even though there is only one level above ground there are three sub-surface ones. There is all the cleaning to do, and the cooking, and. . . .”

  “And machines to do such work,” said Grimes.

  “Not here,” said the chauffeur. “Not on Liberia. Not now. In order to create employment for the refugees whom we have accepted from all over the Galaxy we have reverted to the use of human labor wherever possible.”

  “I thought,” Grimes said, “that this principle applied only to large-scale enterprises, such as agriculture. Not to menial work.”

  “Are you calling me a menial?” demanded the man.

  “Of course not,” said Grimes hastily. The driver already seemed more interested in the conversation than the handling of the car; if he got involved in a real argument he might forget to stop and plough into and through the reception committee.

  He did stop; only just in time, it seemed to Grimes. The doors opened. The ADC was first out. Grimes followed, putting on his top hat. He raised it in response to the Sergeant’s smart salute. The short, stocky civilian came forward and bowed, presenting his shiny, bald pate to the Governor’s inspection. He straightened up and said, “Jaconelli, Your Excellency. David Jaconelli. Your secretary.”

  Grimes took his clammy hand, pressed it briefly.

  He said, “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Jaconelli.”

  One of the servants, the one with the most lavish display of braid and buttons on his tunic, presented himself and bowed far more deeply than had the secretary. His sparse gray hair, Grimes noted, was scraped back and plaited into a neat queue, a pigtail. He came erect and regarded Grimes from black, slanted eyes. His face was thin, the skin tightly stretched over the bone structure, his complexion ivory yellow. A wispy beard decorated his far from prominent chin.

  He said, in a high-pitched voice that was not quite a twitter, “Welcome, Your Excellency, from myself and from all of your servants.”

  “Thank you,” replied Grimes. Then, “You are . . .?”

  “My name is Wong Lee, Your Excellency. I have the honor to be Your Excellency’s majordomo.”

  “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Lee.” (Or should that have been Mr. Wong?) “You may tell the other servants to return to their duties.” Orders were given in a high-pitched voice in a language that Grimes thought was Chinese. “And now, if you will be so good as to escort me to my quarters. . . .”

  Led by Wong Lee, accompanied by Lieutenant Smith and Mr. Jaconelli, Grimes walked into what would be his happy home until such time as his gubernatorial employment was terminated. Would he be able to resign before he got fired? he wondered.

  The four men marched through what seemed, to Grimes, like miles of corridors, over long reaches of gleaming parquetry, past a never-ending display, on either side, of works of art, copies—but excellent ones—of paintings of all periods, representative of every school since some inspired Cromagnard daubed his crude but enduring pigments onto a cave wall. There was a Turner—Spaceship out of sight in a gas nebula, thought Grimes irreverently—and a Picasso—Portrait of a lady after a Mannschenn Drive malfunction. And a Rubens . . . Grimes had no objection to naked blondes but preferred men less fat. A Norman Lindsay . . . None of his undressed ladies could be classed as skinny but they were far more to Grimes’s taste than the models of the old Dutch master. Inevitably there was that famous woman who daren’t smile properly—thought Grimes, cultural barbarian that he was—for fear of exposing her carious teeth. Then there were more Australian artists. There was Nolan, with his weirdly compelling perpetuation of a myth, the giant in his fantastic armor astride a horse that could have been borrowed (or stolen!) from Don Quixote. A myth? But there had been a Ned Kelly, whose name and fame had survived while those of countless far worthier citizens were long forgotten. And if the cards had fallen only a little differently at Glenrowan what might have happened? The course of Australian history, of Terran history, even, could have been changed.

  Wong Lee noticed Grimes’s interest in the Nolan paintings.

  “A folk hero, Your Excellency?” he asked.

  “Mphm. Yes, I suppose.”

  “Perhaps an honorable ancestor . . .”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  They came to the Governor’s suite.

  There was a large, comfortable sitting room with, off it, an office—big enough, thought Grimes, for a full meeting of the entire Board of Admiralty. While the others watched respectfully he took his seat behind the vast, gleaming desk, enjoying the feeling of power. He had commanded ships and, recently, a flotilla—but this was different. Now he was boss cocky of an entire planet—on paper, at least. De jure. But de facto? That remained to be seen. He looked down to his reflection in the highly polished surface of the desk, saw behind his face the crossed flags, the banners of Terra and of the Interstellar Federation. He saw too, with something of a shock, that he was still wearing the absurd top hat. But he was the Governor, wasn’t he? This was his Residence, wasn’t it? If he couldn’t make his own rules of etiquette, who could? Nonetheless he removed the head covering, skimmed it across the desk top to Wong Lee.

  He got up then and, followed by the others, made a tour of his living quarters. There was a luxurious bedroom. He saw that his baggage had already been deposited there; it must have been offloaded and transported while he was inspecting the Guard of Honor at the spaceport. Somebody had begun to unpack and had laid out his civilian full evening dress on the bed. That somebody was a girl—tall, with glossy black hair swinging in a pageboy bob about her face, wearing a royal blue tunic and a long, white skirt that was slit to hip level, revealing a delectable length of smooth, ivory-skinned leg. She straightened up from what she was doing, turned to Grimes and bowed. Like the other servants she was of Mongoloid stock—a descendant, Grimes supposed, of those New Cantonese refugees. But there was some mixed blood—that wide mouth, the almost—but no more than almost—harsh angularity of the facial bone structure.

  “This is Su Lin, Your Excellency,” said Wong Lee. “She is to be your . . . handmaiden. I decided that you, as a space gentleman, accustomed to the ministrations of stewardesses aboard your ships, would prefer a personal attendant of the female sex.”

  “I like to make my own decisions,” said Grimes.

  “Then, Your Excellency, I will see to it that Peng Yuan, who was valet to your late, revered predecessor, performs the same duties for your honored self.”

  “I’ve already told you, Mr. Wong,” said Grimes stiffly, “that I like to make my own decisions. I am sure that Miss Su will be quite satisfactory.”

  “It is not customary, Your Excellency, to use an honorific when addressing or referring to under servants.”

  Jaconelli and Smith exchanged glances, each permitting himself as much of a sneer as he dared.

  Grimes restrained himself from saying that he was the Governor and that he made the rules. It would not do at all to cut the old man down to size in the presence of a subordinate and of the ADC and the secretary. As he knew from experience a wise captain does not unnecessarily antagonize his chief steward.

  He looked at his wrist companion, the chronological function of which had been set to local time.

  He said, “I think, now, that I’d like to get cleaned up and all the rest of it. What time should I leave the Residence for the Palace, Lieutenant?”

  “1900 hours, sir.”

  “Thank you. And Mr. Jaconelli. . . .”

  “Sir?”

  “I take it that all of the late Governor Wibberley’s papers will be accessible to me? In the office, perhaps. . . .”

  “No, sir.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “After the accident al
l documents were taken by Colonel Bardon. He said he was shipping them back to Earth.”

  “But there must have been copies.”

  “Yes, Your Excellency. But. . . .”

  “But what?”

  “He took them too.”

  “Why didn’t you . . .?”

  “Sir, I am only the Governor’s secretary. Until your arrival the Colonel was the senior Terran officer on this planet.”

  “Mphm.” Grimes glared at Smith, who had been listening to the exchange with interest and enjoyment. “You may go, Lieutenant. Be waiting for me in the car at 1900 hours.”

  “Very good, Your Excellency.”

  “And Mr. Jaconelli. . . . Please arrange with the Bureau of Meteorology for the release of Captain Raoul Sanchez, the shuttle pilot who brought me down from Sobraon, to serve as my atmosphere pilot.”

  “It was my understanding, Your Excellency, that Colonel Bardon was to second one of his officers to your service.”

  “Then tell the Colonel that I am making my own arrangements. Oh, and I’d like a crew list.”

  “A crew list?”

  “A list of all the Residence staff. Age, sex, birthplace, national and/or planetary origin, qualifications, if any, etc., etc., and etc.”

  “Very good, Your Excellency. Will that be all?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  When the ADC and the secretary were gone the majordomo asked, “Will you require my services any further, Your Excellency?”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Wong. You may leave. And you, Su Lin.”

  She objected. “But, Your Excellency, I am your body servant. I am to serve you in all ways.”

  “It is customary among our people, sir,” said Wong Lee. “There is the help to be given to a great man in the removal of his formal attire and the donning of other ceremonial clothing. There is the bringing of refreshment when he so desires it. There is. . . .”

  Meanwhile Grimes had succeeded in getting his pipe out of a pocket in his too-tight-fitting trousers and, after another little struggle, his tobacco pouch. He filled the vile brier and was patting his coat pockets in a vain search for a box of the old-fashioned matches that he preferred to other means of ignition.

  And then Su Lin was holding a golden lighter, a miniature flame thrower from which issued a jet of incandescence. Grimes hated having his pipe lit for him but submitted to her ministrations. If he refused to submit to other, more intimate ones he would be likely to hurt her feelings. He would just have to see to it that the ministrations were not too intimate. During his Survey Service career he had always despised commanding officers who had engaged in liaisons with their personal stewardesses. (He was, in some ways, a snob; he had never shied away from the occasional affair with female shipmates who held commissioned rank.)

  Wong Lee bowed deeply and glided away.

  Grimes said to the girl, “Lin—or should it be Su?”

  “Whichever pleases Your Excellency.”

  “All right. Su. Please wait in the sitting room while I get undressed and showered.”

  “But I am your body servant, Your Excellency.”

  Already she was helping him out of his tail coat and was loosening the cravat about his neck. He let her go ahead with it. After all, he thought, this was the girl’s job, one for which she had been trained. And, he admitted, he liked being pampered, especially by attractive women. Her nimble fingers coped expeditiously with studs and buttons. (Why could not the items of formal dress be secured by seal seams?)

  Surprisingly soon he was naked, unembarrassed but determined that things would go no further. He walked to the open door of the bathroom, into the shower cubicle. Before he could put a hand to the controls a slim, bare arm slid past his shoulder and a long, scarlet-nailed finger pushed the warm button. He felt smooth, soft nudity against his back. He turned to face the girl and said, “I am quite capable of washing myself. Su Lin. Please wait for me in the bedroom.”

  Then, lest the order be misconstrued, he added, “And get dressed.”

  She stepped away from him and bowed, saying, her voice expressionless, “As Your Excellency pleases.”

  She turned gracefully and glided away from him; her smoothly working buttocks were like peaches poised on the long, slender (but not too slender) stems of her legs.

  Feeling excessively virtuous Grimes continued with his shower. The water temperature was just right. He pushed the detergent button, then the one labeled scrubbers. The soft brushes worked up a scented lather all over his body. He thought that her hands would have made an even better job of it. Although the feeling of virtue persisted he was beginning to feel something of a bloody fool. But one of his own rules, which he was determined not to break, was NEVER PLAY AROUND WITH THE HIRED HELP.

  “You stinking snob!” he muttered.

  And, talking of stinks, he would have to get the detergent dispenser charged with something less redolent of a whore’s garret.

  The blowers soon dried him and he returned to the bedroom. The girl was waiting for him, once again respectably attired. Her face, utterly devoid of expression, could have been carved from old ivory. Expertly she helped him into his full evening dress, the archaic white tie and tails, with decorations. When he was fully clad he surveyed himself in the full-length mirror of the wardrobe. The effect would have been better, he thought, had he been taller and slimmer, less stocky, but . . . Not bad, he thought. Not bad. He allowed Su Lin to make the final adjustments to the snowy white butterfly nestling on his Adam’s apple.

  “Thank you,” he told her and walked through to the sitting room.

  Lieutenant Smith, in his uniform mess full dress, was waiting for him.

  He said, “The car is waiting for us, Your Excellency.”

  “Thank you,” said Grimes.

  He followed the ADC to the doorway. Before he could pass through it Su Lin came out of the bedroom carrying his hat, another topper, black this time. Grimes had deliberately forgotten the thing; he took it from her with a brief word of thanks that he hoped she sensed was insincere.

  He let Smith pilot him through the labyrinth of corridors.

  He thought, I must tell Jaconelli to get me a chart of this bloody warren.

  Chapter 10

  The gubernatorial car was waiting in the portico, the civilian chauffeur, in his livery of faded, frayed denim and red neckerchief, in the front seat and, beside him, two soldiers in khaki uniform. The rear doors of the vehicle opened. Grimes took off his top hat, climbed in. The ADC followed him. Wong Lee and Su Lin bowed deferentially as the Whispering Ghost purred away from the portico.

  Grimes tried to make conversation.

  “I’m not used to having an ADC,” he remarked pleasantly to the Lieutenant.

  “ADC, Officer Commanding the Governor’s Guard, liaison with the Officer Commanding the Garrison. . . .” The officer’s voice was surly. “I hope that you don’t think up any other jobs for me, Your Excellency. If ever there was a penny-pinching operation, this is it. I’m surprised that they don’t have me doing the cooking. . . .”

  “Talking of cooking,” said Grimes, hoping to switch the conversation to a topic dear to his heart, “what’s the chef like?”

  “Oh, all right, I suppose, if you don’t mind mucked-up food. He’s New Cantonese, of course. Like all the rest of the Residence mob, with the exception of my men and Jaconelli and myself.” He laughed. “I’m surprised that they didn’t appoint a New Cantonese as Governor. They’d be paying him much less than they’re paying you, Your Excellency.”

  “Mphm.” Grimes managed to make it sound like a reprimand. He didn’t like and never had liked moaners. “Some people would think that being appointed ADC to a Governor was an honor.”

  “I . . . I suppose so, Your Excellency.”

  They sat in silence while the car sped down the winding road toward the city, taking a different route, Grimes noted, from that which had been taken during the journey from the spaceport. Dusk was falling fast but still work was
continuing in the fields to either side of the highway. The last of the daylight was caught and reflected by metal implements, by sickles (sickles! in this day and age!) and the blades of hand-wielded hoes. A few of the laborers paused and straightened up to stare at the passing vehicle but most of them took no respite from their back-breaking toil.

  Then there were no more fields but, to either side of the wide avenue, there were houses, each in its own garden. All of these buildings were low and rambling, the architectural style vaguely Spanish. Some—but only a few—of the gardens were well-kept; most of them were miniature jungles. The street lights were coming on but not all of them were working.

  There was some traffic in the avenue. There was the very occasional solar-electric car. There was a sudden swarm of cyclists, skimming silently through the dusk. Motorized machines, thought Grimes at first, then saw that all the riders’ legs were pumping vigorously. Workers, he decided, domestic servants possibly, returning to their compounds outside the city. And there were trishaws, tricycles with the passengers seated forward, flanked by the pair of leading wheels, with the operator on his saddle astern of them, pedaling hard. Most of the passengers were of Caucasian stock—and all the drivers Mongoloid. Grimes grunted disapprovingly. The use of such transport was justified only during periods of energy crisis—and such days were long past on all of man’s worlds.

  Ahead, now, was the President’s Palace, a blaze of illumination, with its profusion of white pillars more Grecian than Spanish. The vast expanse of lawn surrounding the building was like dark green velvet, the drive along which the car made its approach was surfaced with well-raked yellow gravel. A flock of sheep drifted slowly across the headlight beams; the vehicle slowed to a crawl until the animals were past and clear. The driver turned his head to address Grimes.