Grimes turned to follow Sergeant Priam from Xenophon’s plainly furnished office. The colonel checked him.
“Oh, Commodore, I advise you, strongly, not to try to conduct any sort of rescue operation yourself. Please leave matters in the hands of the experts, such as myself and my people.”
“I shouldn’t know where to start,” said Grimes.
But I shall find out, he thought.
His confrontation with Ellena was bad enough, although not as bad as he had dreaded that it would be.
“Much as I should wish to,” she said coldly, “I cannot hold you responsible, Commodore. The Archon was having his ‘nights out’ . . .” she contrived to apostrophize the phrase . . . “long before you returned to this world.
“Meanwhile, all that I can do is wait. Presumably the kidnappers will present their demands shortly, and then there will be decisions to be made. Until then . . .” She smiled bleakly. “Until then, the show must go on. I shall function as acting Archon until the return of my husband. There will be no disruption of the affairs of state, not even the minor ones such as the Marathon next week.”
She is enjoying this . . . thought Grimes.
He asked, “What about the Council, Lady?”
She said, “The Council will do as they are told.”
Or else? he wondered.
She said, “That will be all, Commodore.”
Grimes considered backing out of the presence but decided not to.
“Who were those women?” asked Maggie.
“I’ll know them if I meet them again,” said Grimes.
“Could they,” she went on, “have been members of the Amazon Guard?”
“No. The Amazon Guard, apart from exceptions such as Shirl and Darleen, goes in for uniformity. Apart from hair coloring all those wenches could be cast from the same mold. The Amazon Guard, I mean. It was a very mixed bunch that we got tangled with last night. The long and the short and the tall.”
“And you’re sure about the airship?”
“Of course I’m sure.” He paused for thought. “You were snooping around for quite a while before I got here and, as a Survey Service commander, meeting officers in the various New Spartan armed forces. Does the Navy run to any female personnel?”
“No.”
“Trans-Sparta Airlines?”
She said, “You might have something. Not only do they have women in their ground staff but even token female flight crews. Not in the passenger ships, yet, but in the smaller freight carriers.”
“Do they do any night flying?”
“I don’t know, John. You’re far more of an expert on such matters than I am. Making an arrival or a departure in a spaceship you always have to check up with Aerospace Control, don’t you?”
“And on most worlds there’re always some aircraft up and about, at any hour of the day or night. The Aerospace Control computers keep track of them.”
“And suppose certain computer operators wanted to hide the fact that a small airship, a small, freight-carrying airship with a female crew, wasn’t where she was supposed to be . . .”
“You’ve told me how,” he said, “but not why.”
“Or,” she said, “where? Where have they taken him?”
“I think that he’s safe enough,” Grimes said. “If they’d wanted to assassinate him they’d have done just that.”
“So we start off snooping around Aerospace Control and the Head Office of Trans-Sparta.”
“Colonel Xenophon intimated that he’d be taking a dim view if I started making my own investigations.”
“But you won’t be investigating the Archon’s disappearance. As the owner of a ship on a regular run to New Sparta, shortly to be taking command again of that same ship, you’re naturally interested in the workings of local Aerospace Control. You can say that you’ve had a few complaints from your Chief Officer, Mr. Williams, who’s been acting Master in your absence.”
“Makes sense.”
“And I, carrying on with my own research project, will be interested by the part played by women now in the air transport industry. Fenella might care to come along with me to hold my hand.”
“A good idea. It’s time that she started to pull her weight. Or does she already know quite a lot that she’s not passing on to us?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” she said.
Chapter 17
On some worlds the kidnapping of a national or planetary ruler would go almost unnoticed or, at most, evoke only shrugs and muttered comments of “Serve the bastard right!” (There were, of course, those on New Sparta who muttered just that, but careful not to do so in the hearing of those who most certainly would take violent exception to such a comment.) But Brasidus had been popular. He had nursed his world through a transition period, had restored and maintained stability. There were orderly demonstrations outside the Palace, expressions of sympathy and support. There were demands that the criminals—whoever they were—be brought swiftly to justice and the Archon released unharmed.
There was extensive media coverage.
Grimes, Maggie and Fenella studied the story of the kidnapping that was splashed all over the front page of The New Spartan Times, together with photographs of Brasidus, Grimes and Colonel Xenophon. “A gang of eight men disguised as women . . .” read Grimes aloud. “Those were no transvestites!” he exclaimed.
“They could have been . . .” murmured Fenella. “There are such people, you know . . . .”
“Those two serving wenches who immobilized Jason and Paulus most certainly weren’t transvestites. If they had been, those two so-called bodyguards would soon have found out. Their hands were everywhere . . . .”
“So you admit to being a voyeur,” sneered Fenella.
“I couldn’t help noticing.”
“Then they were accomplices—the serving wenches, I mean—of the six men in disguise.”
“Those were not men in disguise!” asserted Grimes. “I should know. I was in violent physical contact with all of them, or most of them, twice. Once inside the tavern, once in the street outside. When you wrestle with somebody, especially somebody dressed in only a flimsy chiton, you soon find out if it’s he or she.”
“All right,” Fenella said. “You’re the expert. But it’s your word against Xenophon’s. What is he trying to cover up?”
“And on whose orders?” asked Maggie.
“There could be another explanation,” suggested Grimes. “One that makes sense. He’s playing cunning, trying to lull the kidnappers into a sense of false security, making them think that he’s on a false scent . . . .”
“Or, perhaps,” said Maggie, “he doesn’t want to antagonize our leading militant feminist, the Lady Ellena, by daring to suggest that members of her sex are guilty of the crime. After all, until Brasidus is released . . . .”
“If he ever is released . . .” said Fenella cheerfully.
“Until Brasidus is released, or rescued,” went on Maggie, “Lady Ellena is de facto ruler of this world. And—I could be wrong, of course—while she is so, heads are liable to roll.”
“Not ours, I hope,” said Grimes.
“I don’t think so. Not yet, anyhow. I’m Survey Service, and that counts for something. Fenella represents the Galactic Media—and that could count for even more. And you, John, even though she’s not quite sure about you, are a wealthy shipowner . . . .”
“Ha!” interjected Grimes scornfully.
“ . . . with friends in high places.”
“With friends like them,” said Grimes, “what do I need with enemies?”
“Yes,” said Fenella. “You do have friends. As well I know. So . . . There’s a cover-up job. So things aren’t what they seem. So what are you two doing about it?”
“What are you doing about it?” asked Maggie.
“You make the news, duckie. I report it.”
They told her, then, of their proposed investigations of Aerospace Control and the operations of Trans-Sparta Airline
s. Fenella agreed to accompany Maggie, playing the part of an interested journalist, during the visit to the airlines office.
This was not, of course, Grimes’s first visit to an Aerospace Control operations center. While he had been in the Survey Service, officers, especially those holding command, had been required to gain an inside knowledge of the workings of such establishments. On Botany Bay, after the Discovery mutiny, he had been instrumental in setting up Aerospace Control on that planet. Now, as owner-master of a ship on a regular run between Earth and New Sparta, a telephone call was sufficient to secure for him an appointment with the New Spartan Aerospace Control Director.
A sullen, chastened Paulus drove him from the Palace to the spaceport. He did, however, make some attempt at conversation. “That police chief, sir . . . Has he been on to you? He tried to make Jason and me admit that the two girls we were chatting up were . . . men.”
“You should know,” said Grimes nastily. “Were they?”
“What do you take us for?” For a while he concentrated on his driving. “And the worst of it is that he got us to sign a statement that the two little bitches were men. He told us that if we didn’t sign it’d be just too bad. For us.” There was another silence, then, “One thing we learned on Earth is that it doesn’t do to tangle with police chiefs. Not unless you have something on them. And even then . . . .”
There were more police in the streets than usual, Grimes noticed. There was also a police detachment at the airport gates, checking the credentials of all who entered. Paulus had with him an official card of some kind. The police lieutenant sneered when it was produced and said, “Ah, one of the famous bodyguards. I hope that you make a better job of guarding this gentleman’s body than you did the Archon’s . . .” Grimes produced his passport and other papers; even then it was necessary to make a call from the gate office to Aerospace Control. At last they were let through.
The spaceport control tower was part of Aerospace Control, but only its visible portion. The rest of it, most of it, was underground. Grimes told Paulus to wait in the hovercar. The man didn’t like it. He seemed determined to guard somebody now that his major charge had been taken from him. But the commodore was firm.
He was expected in the ground floor office. A uniformed—but in spacemanlike black and gold, not pseudo-Greek brass and leather—official, a young woman, escorted him into an elevator which, by its rapid descent to the depths, produced a simulation of free fall. She led him through a maze of brightly lit tunnels, finally into a vast compartment that was all illuminated maps and colored lights, some winking and some steady, in the center of which was a globe depicting Space one hundred thousand kilometers out from New Sparta in all directions. By this was a large desk with its own complement of screens and globes, at which sat the Director.
This gentleman got to his feet as Grimes and his guide approached. The girl saluted smartly and then faded into the background. The Director, a tall, heavily bearded man, like Grimes in civilian clothing, a very plain, gray, one-piece business suit, extended his right hand. Grimes took it.
“Glad to have you aboard, Commodore,” he was told. “Of course your ship is no stranger to us here but this is the first time that I have had the pleasure of meeting any of her personnel.”
“The pleasure is mine,” said Grimes.
“Thank you, Commodore. Will you be seated?” He waved to a chair on the other side of the desk. “You are staying at the Palace, I understand. A most serious business, is it not, this kidnapping of the Archon. What could be the motivation? Money—or politics? Mind you, I should not be at all surprised if those New Hellas people, or whatever they call themselves, are involved.” He laughed without humor. “Either they want the Archon to press ahead with what they see as reforms or they want him to put the clock back. I have read their propaganda and I’ve got the impression that they don’t know what they do want.”
“Who does?” asked Grimes. Then, “You’re not a New Spartan, by birth, are you, Director? I’ve a tin ear for accents but yours seems to be—let me guess—Rim Worlds . . . .”
“Too right. I was Deputy Director of Aerospace Control on Lorn and the Director looked like staying put for the next century or so. Then the New Spartan government was advertising for candidates for this job and I applied.” He grinned. “I like to think that I run a taut ship.”
“I’m sure that you do, Director.”
“But when you called me, to make this appointment, you sort of hinted that you had some kind of complaint.”
“I don’t. But, as you may know, although normally I am in command of Sister Sue myself I held a ground appointment for a while . . . .”
“A ground appointment!” chuckled the Director. “I suppose you could call it that.”
“Yes. During my absence from active command my chief officer, Billy Williams, has been acting master. Captain Williams has been sending voyage reports to me, in my capacity as owner. I have gained the impression from them that he has not been entirely satisfied with New Sparta Aerospace Control’s handling of his arrivals and departures.”
“He never complained to me about it. If he has any whinges, Commodore, what are they?”
Grimes affected embarrassment. “Well, as a matter of fact, Billy—Captain Williams—is inclined to be sexist. When he calls Aerospace Control on any planet he likes it to be a male voice that answers him. All nonsense, of course.” Grimes looked around the large, dimly lit room. So far as he could see every console, but one, was attended by a male. “A lot of women would consider you sexist, too. Practically all your staff is male.”
“They wouldn’t be,” said the Director, “if the Lady Ellena had her way. But even if she did—where would I get trained females from? The girl who brought you in is one of our cadets, but it will be at least two years before she qualifies as a junior controller. And over there, under the airways chart, is Marina. She’s a controller third class. She should get her step up and the ones after without any difficulty. She’s got a natural feel for the work . . . .”
“Could it be her that my Captain Williams had trouble with? He did say that on his way in he missed a big commercial dirigible by inches. Of course, Billy tends to exaggerate . . . .”
“So it would seem, Commodore. But why don’t we stroll over to have a word with Marina?”
The two men walked to where, just over where the girl was sitting, a huge chart of New Sparta, on a Mercatorial projection, adorned the wall. On it little white lights slowly moved, their extrapolated courses fine, luminescent threads. The display, Grimes knew, was computer-controlled and the human operator no more than an observer—but an observer with power to take over should a situation develop with which the electronic brain, lacking intuition and imagination, would be unable to cope.
“Just our normal commercial traffic,” said the Director. “The Navy doesn’t seem to have any ships up today. They’re marked by blue lights. And we don’t have any spacecraft coming in or lifting off to complicate the picture.” He picked up the long pointer from its rack under the chart, with its tip indicated a spark that, obviously, was making its approach to Port Sparta. “Who is that, Marina?” he asked.
The girl turned in her swivel chair to look up at him. “City of Athens, sir,” she told him. “She has clearance to come in to her moorings. ETA 1515 hours.” Then she saw Grimes standing next to the Director. Her eyes widened but only briefly, very briefly. She was what he would class as a nondescript brunette, smart enough in her uniform, certainly smarter than when he had last seen her, in a disheveled chiton and those spurious vine leaves entangled in her hair. If it was her, that was. But there was the scent that he had smelled during the struggle in the inn, an animal pungency so pronounced as to be almost unpleasant.
He asked, “Haven’t we met before, Marina?”
She said coldly, her manner implying who-the-hell-are-you-anyhow? “I do not think so, sir.”
“This is Commodore Grimes, Marina,” said the Director. “The own
er of Sister Sue, and her captain when he’s not governing planets.”
“I have heard of you, sir,” said the girl. Then, “Excuse me. I have to keep an eye on City of Thrace and City of Macedon; their courses will be close to intersection in an area of poor visibility and turbulence.”
She returned her attention to the chart, to the whisper of voices that was coming from the speaker below it.
The Director led Grimes back to his desk.
“Normally,” he said, “I’m here only when something interesting is happening. Nothing of interest is happening today and the duty watch is well able to look after the shop. But I thought that you’d like to see how we run things. And it makes a change from my eternal paperwork in my own office.”
“How many female controllers do you have?” asked Grimes.
“At the moment, six. One on each watch—that makes three—and the others on non-watchkeeping duties. As a matter of fact Marina isn’t on the watchkeeping list; she’s filling in for one of the others. Cleo. She had an accident last night. Fell and cut her leg quite badly on a piece of broken glass or something.”
“These things happen,” said Grimes.
“And when they happen to people who’re overweight they’re usually more serious,” said the Director.
“These big, fat blondes . . .” murmured Grimes commiseratingly.
“She is a blonde,” admitted the Director. “But how did you guess?”
“I knew a fat blonde once. And she was always getting into trouble.”
The Director laughed and then the two men went up to his private office for drinks and a pleasant enough but inconsequential talk.
Later, in his suite at the Palace, Grimes compared notes with Maggie and Fenella. He told them what he had discovered. “Whoever is behind the kidnapping,” he told the women, “has agents, two at least, in Aerospace Control. Traffic officers sufficiently experienced to persuade the average computer to falsify records, to show airships as being where they aren’t and not where the screen says they are. One was on duty when I paid my call to the Director. I recognized her. She, of course, recognized me.”
Ride the Star Winds Page 31
