“Which you did,” said Grimes. “I’m eternally grateful to you.”
“Gratitude isn’t enough, Commodore. Who’s going to pay for the delay while I load a fresh cargo? Who’s going to pay for the cargo that’s been destroyed?”
“Lloyd’s of London,” Grimes told her. “I imagine that the jettison will come under the heading of General Average.”
“But as the owner of Agatha’s Ark I shall still be held liable for my share of the expense involved.”
“I’m sure that Rear Admiral Damien will see you right.”
“Eventually. But the tide runs very slowly through official channels.”
“Then, Agatha, would you accept a job on this world, a sinecure, for a very short time and at a very high salary? Terms to be negotiated.”
“What is it?” she asked suspiciously.
“I’m the ruler of this world until things get sorted out. A new president has to be elected and approved. Until it’s done I’m the only one with legal power. Liberia has no Examiner of Interstellar Masters and Mates. Yet. Do you want the post?”
“What’s the catch?”
“There’s no catch. All you have to do is supervise just one examination. Mine. As I read the law, a Liberian Master’s Certificate of Competency will be good anywhere in the Galaxy. My real Certificate, issued at Port Woomera, was suspended by that Court of Inquiry.
“So . . .”
“You’re an opportunistic bastard, Grimes,” she said.
“Too right,” he agreed smugly.
“So we have a farce of an examination, after which I issue a Certificate of Competency, autographed by myself. Are you sure that you wouldn’t like to sign it too, as Governor? And then, just to oblige you still further, I put young Sanchez on my books as Fourth Mate so he can start getting in Deep Space time for his certificates. Is there anything else?”
“At the moment, no. But if there is, I’ll let you know.”
“Do just that.” She grinned. “Well, Commodore, it was all an exciting break from the usual tramping routine, just as the privateering expedition was. But I have to get back to the spaceport to see what’s happening to the Ark. I have a strong suspicion that Lloyd’s surveyors will be sniffing around the hold, trying to find evidence of a fire. . . .”
“And will there be?” asked Grimes.
“Surely, Commodore, you would not expect me to defraud an insurance company?”
She finished her drink, got up and strode out of the Governor’s sitting room. (Its windows repaired, the Residence was habitable again.) Grimes and Su Lin watched her go.
Agatha Prinn, thought Grimes, was one of the women whom he would always remember with affection. Just as—he looked at her, lounging gracefully in her chair—Su Lin would be.
“What will you do now?” she asked suddenly.
“I . . . I was thinking of resigning. As soon as they can arrange a relief for me. Once I have a valid Certificate of Competency I can take over command of my ship again. But . . . I’m not so sure. Suppose I don’t resign. Suppose I stay here, as Governor . . .”
“If they let you.”
He ignored this.
“Being Governor’s Lady wouldn’t be a bad life for a woman, Su Lin. And I’d need somebody like you, who knows the planet better than I do.”
“I’m sorry,” she told him. “Genuinely sorry. But PAT will be reassigning me. Dennison is arranging for my passage off Liberia now. But cheer up. We’ll meet again some time. There’s bound to be some complicated mess somewhere that will take the two of us to clear up. And I could never settle down on one world for keeps, any more than you could.
“You’re lucky. Admit it. You’ll soon be getting your precious Sister Sue back.”
But I lost Fat Susie, he thought, and even that lopsided apology for a balloon, Little Susie. And it will not be long before I lose Su Lin.
Somehow, suddenly, his memories of the girl were more vivid, more real than her flesh and blood actuality. Their lovemaking in the wrecked airship . . . She standing beside him, proudly bare-breasted, while he hoisted the piratical black flag on the flagstaff on the roof of the Residence . . .
Damn it all, he would even miss having her lighting his pipe for him.
Was he, after all, so lucky?
THE
LAST
AMAZON
DEDICATION
For Susan,
who makes me keep my nose to the grindstone.
Chapter 1
The bands played and the Federation Survey Service Marines paraded in their scarlet and gold dress uniforms and the children waved their little flags and the grown-ups lifted high their broad-brimmed black hats as Grimes, ex-Governor John Grimes, arrived at Port Libertad, there to embark aboard the star tramp Rim Wayfarer. With him, to see him off, were two people whom he did not regard as friends—but protocol demanded their attendance. One of them was Estrelita O’Higgins, still, despite all, President of Liberia. She was a survivor, that one. She had contrived to lay the blame for all of the planet’s troubles, culminating in the armed revolt against the Earth-appointed Governor, Grimes, on the now-disgraced Colonel Bardon, lately commanding officer of the Terran garrison. The other was Captain Francis Delamere, of the Federation Survey Service, the new Governor.
Delamere should have a far easier time of it than either Grimes or his immediate predecessor. He had brought his own garrison troops out with him, a large detachment of Marines who—in theory at least—gave their allegiance to the senior Terran naval officer on Liberia, Captain Delamere. And almost immediately after his arrival (he was a notorious ladies’ man) he had made a big hit with the President. For him the job should be a sinecure. Even he would find it hard to make a mess of it—as long as he did not try to interfere with the smooth running of the machinery of government that Grimes—who was for a while, after the putting down of the rebellion, de facto dictator—had set up, with able, honest and dedicated men and women in all the key positions.
But Frankie, thought Grimes, would find it hard to keep his meddling paws off things. He had tried to take an officious interest in Grimes’s own affairs even before the formal handing-over ceremonies, and had made it plain that he wanted his old enemy off the premises as soon as possible, if not before, so that he could bask in his new gubernatorial glory.
He had said, in his most supercilious manner, “There’s no need for you to hang around here like a bad smell, Grimes.”
“But I thought that you were keeping Orion here for a while,” said Grimes. “Wise of you, Frankie. During my spell as Governor I could have done with a Constellation Class cruiser sitting in my backyard.”
“Who said anything about Orion, Grimes? I came here with a squadron.”
“A squadron?” echoed Grimes. “Two ships. One cruiser and one Serpent Class courier . . .”
“I was forgetting,” sneered Delamere, “that you’re something of an expert on squadrons. Didn’t you command one when you were a pirate commodore?”
“A privateer,” growled Grimes. “Not a pirate.”
“And now an ex-Governor,” Delamere reminded him. “As such, you’re entitled to a free trip back to Earth . . .”
“Not in a flying sardine can.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers, Grimes. Anyhow, the sooner you’re back the sooner you’ll be able to find another job. If anybody wants you, that is. You can’t hope to get another command, not even of that Saucy Sue of yours.”
“Sister Sue,” Grimes corrected him stiffly.
“What’s in a name? As far as I know your Certificate of Competency has not been restored—and you’d need that, wouldn’t you, even as a bold buccaneer.”
“I’ve already told you once that I was a privateer.”
“Even so, you were bloody lucky not to be hanged from your own yardarm for piracy. That judge, at the Court of Inquiry, was far too lenient. Did you slip him a backhander out of your ill-gotten gains?”
Grimes ignored this. “Anyhow,” he
said smugly, “I now, once again, hold a valid Certificate of Competency as Master of an Interstellar Vessel.”
“What! Don’t tell me that it has been restored to you!”
“No. It’s a new one. Liberian.”
“And you say it’s valid? Oh, I suppose that you signed it, as Governor, after examining yourself.”
“If you must know, it is signed by the Liberian Minister of Space Shipping. And I was examined, and passed, by the Examiner of Masters and Mates. I admit that she was appointed by myself, for that purpose. But it’s a valid Certificate, recognized as such throughout the Galaxy.”
“You’re a cunning bastard,” whispered Delamere, not without envy.
“I am when I have to be,” Grimes told him. “And now all that I have to do is to catch up with Sister Sue and get my name back on the Register.”
“I’m not letting you have that courier to take on a wild goose chase,” snarled Delamere.
“I’ve already told you that I have no intention of traveling in the bloody thing. I’m quite capable of making my own arrangements. I know where I want to go and I know which ship, due here in a couple of days’ time, will be heading in the right direction when she’s finished discharging and loading.”
And so the bands were playing and the Marines, in their full dress scarlet and gold, were drawn up to stiff attention with gleaming arms presented and the children were waving their little flags and the grown-ups were raising their broad-brimmed black hats high in the air as the big ground car rolled slowly up to the foot of Rim Wayfarer’s ramp.
Delamere’s aide, a young Survey Service Lieutenant, got down from the front seat where he had been sitting beside the Marine corporal driver. He flung open a rear door with a flourish. Estrelita O’Higgins was the first out, tall in superbly tailored, well-filled denim with a scarlet neckerchief at her throat. She was as darkly handsome as when Grimes had first met her, on his arrival at this spaceport (how long ago?) but then he had been prepared to like her, to work with her. Now he knew too much about her—and she about him. Some applause greeted her appearance but it was restrained.
Delamere was next out. He wore full ceremonial rig—the gray trousers, the black morning coat, the gray silk top hat—far more happily than Grimes ever had done. In uniform Handsome Frankie, as he was derisively known, looked as though he were posing for a Survey Service recruiting poster. Now he looked as though he were posing for a Diplomatic Service recruiting poster. He took his stance alongside the President. The impression they conveyed was that of husband and wife about to see off a house guest who had outstayed his welcome.
Again there was a spatter of applause.
Grimes disembarked.
This day he was dressed for comfort—and also in accordance with local sartorial tradition. He was wearing faded blue denim, a scarlet neckerchief, a broad-brimmed black hat.
The cheers, the shouts of “Viva Grimes! Viva Grimes!” were deafening. The Marine band struck up the retiring Governor’s own national song, “Waltzing Matilda.” Both Delamere and the President frowned. This was not supposed to be an item on the agenda—but Colonel Grant, commanding officer of the Marines, had known Grimes before his resignation from the Survey Service.
The people were singing that good old song.
And soon, thought Grimes, there’ll be only my ghost to haunt this billabong . . . .
Estrelita O’Higgins extended her long-fingered right hand, palm down. Grimes bowed to kiss it. She whispered something. It sounded like, “Don’t come back, you bastard!” Francis Delamere raised his silk hat. Grimes raised his felt hat. Neither man attempted to shake hands.
Slowly Grimes walked up the ramp to the after airlock of Rim Wayfarer. At the head of the gangway the master, Captain Gunning, smart enough in his dress black and gold, was waiting to receive him.
He saluted with what was probably deliberate sloppiness and said, “Glad to have you aboard, Commodore.”
“I’m glad to be aboard, Captain,” said Grimes.
“I bet you are. It must be a relief to get away from the stuffed shirts.”
“The era of the stuffed shirt is just beginning here,” Grimes told him.
Gunning, looking down at the new Governor standing stiffly beside the President, laughed. “I see what you mean.”
Grimes turned, to wave for the last time to those who had been his people. They waved back, all of them, native Liberians and those who, as refugees from all manner of disasters, had sought and found a new home on Liberia.
“Viva Grimes! Viva Grimes!”
“I hate to interrupt, Commodore,” said Gunning, “but it’s time that I was getting the old girl upstairs.”
“She’s your ship, Captain.”
“But what a sendoff! Those people sound as though they’re really sorry to lose you.”
“Quite a few,” Grimes told him with a grin, “will be glad to see the back of me.”
“I can imagine.”
The two men stepped into the elevator cage that would carry them up to the control room. The ramp retracted and the outer and inner airlock doors closed.
In less than five minutes Rim Wayfarer was lifting into the clear, noonday sky.
Chapter 2
Grimes and Gunning were at ease in the master’s day cabin, enjoying a few drinks and a yarn before dinner. Trajectory had been set, all life support systems were functioning perfectly, the light lunch served as soon as possible after liftoff had been a good one and Grimes was looking forward to the evening meal.
It was good to be back aboard a ship again, he was thinking as he sipped his pink gin, even though it was only as a passenger. Still, he was a privileged one, being treated more as a guest.
“You know Sparta, of course,” said Gunning.
“I was only there the once,” said Grimes. “Years ago. When I was captain of the Federation Survey Service census ship Seeker.”
Gunning laughed. “But you must know something about Sparta. Every time that I’m sent to a planet I haven’t been to before I do some swotting up on it. There’s not much information in the ship’s library data bank—just the coordinates and a few details about climate and such. Rim Runners don’t believe in paying good money for what they, in their wisdom, regard as useless information. But I found the Libertad Public Library quite informative. Historical details—from the time of Doric’s landing to the present. The way Sparta was dragged into the political framework of the Federation—and the way a certain Lieutenant Commander John Grimes initiated this process.”
“I was just there when it happened,” said Grimes. “Or when it started to happen. I was little more than a spectator.”
“As you were on Liberia, Commodore, when things happened.” Gunning laughed. “I’d just hate to be around when you were something more than just a spectator.”
“But I was little more on Sparta,” Grimes insisted. “One of my scientific officers, Maggie Lazenby, was the prime mover. She took a shine to Brasidus, who is now the Archon, and he to her.” He laughed. “It was the first time that he’d had any dealings with a woman. He really thought that she was a member of some alien species . . . .”
“I’ve often thought the same myself about women,” said Gunning. “But that must have been a weird state of affairs on Sparta when you landed there.”
“It was,” reminisced Grimes. “It was. An all-male population, with all that that implies. Babies—male babies only—produced by the so-called Birth Machine. A completely spurious but quite convincing biology taught in the schools to make sense of this. The planet was a Lost Colony, of course, founded during the First Expansion. You know, the Deep Freeze ships. They started off with an incubator and a supply of fertilized ova. Male ova. The first King, who had been master of the starship, made sure of that. He didn’t like women. He tried to model his realm on ancient Sparta but with one great improvement. Men Only. I suppose that when the original supply of ova ran out the Spartans might have had to resort to cloning but, before this c
ame to pass, the people of another Lost Colony, Latterhaven, made contact. Trade developed between the two worlds. Fertilized human ova in exchange for spices and such.”
“I got most of that from the library at Port Libertad,” said Gunning. “But what was it like? A world with no women . . . .”
“What you’d expect,” said Grimes. “The really macho types, with their leather and brass, in the armed forces. The effeminate men working as nurses in the crèche and other womanly occupations. The in-betweeners were the helots; after all, somebody has to hew the wood and draw the water. But once the bully boys got a whiff of real pussy—Seeker had a mixed crew—all hell started to break loose. And there were, too, some women on the planet already. The doctors running the Birth Machine had their own secret harem.”
“I expect that you’ll find things changed, Commodore,” remarked Gunning.
“I shall be surprised if I don’t. To begin with, there’s no longer a monarchy. The Archon is the boss cocky. And there has been considerable immigration from the Federated Planets—mostly people, as far as I can gather, who have their own ideas about what life was like in Ancient Greece. Billy Williams—who’s been acting master of Sister Sue during my absence—has been sending me reports.”
“That was a nice little time charter you got for your ship,” said Gunning. “Earth to Sparta with assorted luxury goods, Spartan spices back. Did your early connections with Sparta help you to get it?”
“Possibly,” Grimes told him. He did not add that the Federation Survey Service, in which he still held the reserve captain’s commission that not many people knew about, owed him a few favors. He laughed. “But I never thought that Sister Sue would be earning her living as a retsina tanker. It’s all those immigrants, of course. They must have real Greek wine—although the local tipple wasn’t at all bad when I was on Sparta years ago—and olives and feta cheese and all the rest of it.”
“But surely,” objected Gunning, “the ancient Greeks didn’t drink retsina. It was the Turks, when they occupied Greece in more recent times, who tried to cure the wine-bibbing Christians of their addiction to alcohol by making them put resin in the wine casks.”
Ride the Star Winds Page 23
