Ride the Star Winds

by A Bertram Chandler

  “There’re Army personnel there,” said Grimes. “And Police.”

  “I do not need to be instructed, Commodore, regarding the uniforms worn by my own armed forces.”

  “They aren’t behaving as though they belong to you,” said Fenella.

  “Guards,” snapped Ellena, “if that woman opens her mouth again, gag her!”

  The mob—or the army—was closer now. Was that Colonel Heraclion in one of the leading armored cars? Yes, Grimes decided, it was, making his identification just before the colonel pulled on a respirator. Gas had been used to quell the riot at the Acropolis; if it were used here it would not be so effective. Police and Army personnel, at least, would have their protection.

  The camera shifted its viewpoint, covering, from above, the main entrance to the Palace. Something was rolling out, a huge, broad-rimmed wheel, almost a short-axised cylinder. Gathering speed, it trundled down the road toward the attackers. It was followed by another, and another. Laser fire flickered from the hovercars and there were muzzle flashes and streams of tracer from the heavy machine guns. There were the beginnings of panic, with vehicles attempting to pull off the road, their way blocked by the heavy, ornamental shrubbery. But these were only relatively light armored cars, not heavy tanks.

  The first of the wheels—it must have been radio-controlled—exploded. The second one leaped the crater before being detonated. The third one did not have much effect—but this was because the majority of the marchers had been able to run clear to each side, off the road.

  “A very old weapon,” said Ellena smugly, “but improved upon.”

  Grimes stared at the picture in the screen, at the shattered vehicles, some of which were still smoldering, and at the contorted, dismembered bodies, some very few of which were still feebly twisting and jerking.

  He said bitterly, “I hope you’re satisfied.”

  She said, “They’re only men. Besides, they asked for it and they got it.”

  “Didn’t you rather overreact?” asked Grimes.

  “Come, come, Commodore. Speaking for myself, I would rather overreact to a threat than be torn limb from limb.” She got up to leave. “I do not care what sleeping arrangements you make but all three of you are confined to the Palace, to the two suites allocated to Commander Lazenby and Commodore Grimes.

  “A very good night to you all.”

  She swept out, followed by the two Amazon privates.

  “The manipulating bitch!” exclaimed Fenella, not without admiration. “You know, I almost hope that she pulls it off.”

  “If she does,” said Grimes, “this is one world that I shall do my best to avoid in the foreseeable future.”

  Chapter 22

  So they were, to all intents and purposes, prisoners in the Palace.

  It was decided that Fenella would take up residence in what had been Maggie’s suite and that Maggie would move in with Grimes. Everybody must already know that she had been sleeping with him; now it would be made official. Maggie said that she would call Lieutenant Gupta to let him know that his services might be required but was unable to get through to the spaceport. She tried direct punching first but without results. Then she got through to the Palace switchboard. A young lady in Amazon uniform politely but coldly informed her that during the state of emergency no outward calls were allowed.

  After this the three of them watched the playmaster to try to catch up with the news. There was a speech by Ellena, which she delivered from before a backdrop on which were idealized portraits of such famous persons as Prime Ministers Indira Gandhi, Golda Mier and Margaret Thatcher. There was also one of a lady attired as an ancient Greek warrior, presumably the mythical Queen Hippolyte. This one looked remarkably like Ellena herself.

  (“I suppose that the artist knew on which side her bread is buttered,” sneered Fenella.)

  Ellena’s speech was an impassioned one. She appealed to all citizens to support her in the defense of law and order. She left no doubt in the minds of her audience as to who was the chief upholder of law and order on New Sparta. At the finish, almost as an afterthought, she did mention her missing husband and assured everybody that until his return the business of government was in good hands.

  After she finished talking there was a brief coverage of the attack on the Palace and an assurance that the ringleaders of what was referred to as a riot were under arrest. There was no mention of casualties.

  Sufficient unto the day, thought Grimes, was the evil thereof. No doubt the morrow would bring its own evils. He decided to go outside, onto the balcony, to smoke a quiet pipe before retiring.

  The night seemed to be quiet enough. There were no sounds of gunfire, near or distant. There was no wailing of sirens. Somebody, somewhere not too far away, was plucking at a stringed instrument, accompanying a woman who was softly, not untunefully singing. Grimes did not recognize the song. Of one thing he was sure; it was a very old one. He looked up at the sky, at the stars, at the constellations. These had been named by the first colonists, all of them after gods and heroes of Greek mythology. Poseidon and Cyclops, Jason and Ulysses, Ares and Hercules . . . There were no female names. Would Ellena, Grimes wondered, order her tame astronomers to rectify this? Would the spectacular grouping now called Ares be renamed Hippolyte?

  He was still staring upward when something whirred past his right ear, striking the window frame behind him with a clatter. At once he dropped on to all fours, seeking the protection, such as it was, of the ornamental rail enclosing the balcony. But there were no further missiles.

  He heard Maggie ask sharply, “What was that?” and Fenella demand, “What are you doing, Grimes? Praying? Are you sure that Mecca’s that way?”

  “Down, you silly bitches!” he snarled. “Don’t make targets of yourselves!”

  “Targets?” echoed Maggie.

  He crawled around to face them.

  “Get inside!” he ordered. “Away from the window! Somebody’s throwing things at us . . .”

  “Only a boomerang,” said Maggie. “A little boomerang. It couldn’t hurt a fly . . .” She had picked up the small crescent of cunningly carved wood and was examining it. “There’s writing on it . . .”

  Grimes got to his feet, took the thing from Maggie. On the flat side of it, in childishly formed capitals, was a brief message. BRASIDUS HELD PRISONER AT MELITUS. There was no signature. In lieu there was the figure of a familiar animal.

  “What the hell is that supposed to be?” asked Maggie. “A dinosaur?”

  “A kangaroo, of course,” said Grimes. “And this primitive airmail letter is from Shirl or Darleen, or both of them. They’ve been keeping their ears flapping.”

  They all went back inside. Grimes got out the large atlas. He found Melitus without any trouble. Both a small mountain and a village on its western slopes had that name. It was wild country, with no towns or cities, no roads or railways, only the occasional village, only goat tracks running from nowhere much to nowhere at all. It would be accessible enough to the dirigibles of Trans-Sparta Airlines, or to those of the Spartan Navy, or to any form of heavier-than-air transport.

  “But,” said Grimes, “we don’t have wings.”

  “Lieutenant Gupta and his Krait are under my orders,” said Maggie. “Under your orders actually, although he’s not supposed to know that.”

  “And just how,” asked Grimes, “are we going to give Gupta any orders?”

  “You’ll think of a way,” said Maggie. “You always do.”

  “And meanwhile,” grumbled Fenella, “dear Ellena will tighten her grip on this planet. Oh, I don’t particularly mind. All in all, women make no more of a balls of running things than men do. As long as I get my exclusive story . . . .”

  “Is that all you ever think of?” flared Maggie. “A story? Brasidus is our friend. Too, until and unless the Federation decides otherwise, he is the recognized ruler of this world.”

  “All right. All right. But don’t forget that I’m playing along with you
two only because I scent a story.”

  They turned in then.

  Grimes and Maggie did not go to sleep at once. Neither did they talk much. They decided that any long-range planning was out of the question and that, meanwhile, they would make the best of what time they had together.

  The next morning breakfast, such as it was, was served to them in Grimes’s sitting room. Muddy coffee and little, sweet rolls were not, he thought and said, a solid foundation upon which to build the day. Fenella and Maggie were inclined to agree with him. Before they had quite finished the meal Lieutenant Phryne came in, saying that she had orders to escort them to the Lady Ellena’s presence. She refused to tell them what they were wanted for.

  Ellena received them in her command headquarters. She was wearing the uniform of a high-ranking Amazon officer. In an odd sort of way it suited her even though her body was not shown to advantage by a costume that was, essentially, an affair of leather straps, brass buckles and a short kilt. She was seated behind a desk the surface of which was dominated by her highly polished, plumed, bronze helmet. There was barely room for the papers—reports, possibly—which she had been studying. On the walls were illuminated maps—of the city, of the surrounding countryside, of the entire planet. There was communications equipment elaborate enough to handle the needs of a small army. (It was handling the needs of such an army.) Female officers were doing things at the consoles before which they were sitting, speaking, low-voiced, into microphones.

  “The prisoners, Ma’am,” announced Phryne smartly.

  “Not prisoners, Lieutenant,” Ellena corrected her. “The guests. My husband’s guests.” She looked up from her papers. “Good morning, Commodore, Commander, Miz Pruin. Please be seated.” Phryne brought them hard chairs. “You will recall that yesterday we discussed the possibility of putting the Survey Service’s courier Krait at the disposal of the civil power on this planet . . . .”

  The civil power? wondered Grimes, looking around at the uniformed, armed women, at a screen on one of the walls which had come to life showing a small squadron of Amazon chariots proceeding along a city street, spraying the buildings on either side with heavy machine-gun fire.

  “I am not so sure, Lady,” said Maggie, “that this would be advisable. It has occurred to me that Krait would be better employed in the protection of Federation interests—the shipping in the spaceport, for example . . .”

  “I could, I suppose,” said Ellena coldly, “invoke the Right of Angary . . . .”

  A spacelawyer yet! thought Grimes. But had the Right of Angary ever been invoked to justify the seizure of a ship of war rather than that of a mere merchantman? An interesting legal point . . . Anyhow, he decided suddenly, he wanted Krait, with, but preferably without, her rightfully appointed captain. After all he, in his younger days, had commanded such a vessel.

  He pulled out his pipe, began to fill it. It was an invaluable aid to thinking.

  “Put that thing away, Commodore,” ordered Ellena.

  “As you wish, Lady.” He turned to Maggie. “I think, Commander Lazenby, that the Lady Ellena is well within her rights. And, surely, it is in the interests of the Federation, of which New Sparta is a member, that every effort be made to put a stop to civil commotion which might well develop into a civil war.”

  “Commodore Grimes,” said Ellena, “has far more experience in such matters than you do, Commander Lazenby. After all, he has been a planetary ruler himself.”

  “I bow,” said Maggie, “to the superior knowledge of the Archon’s wife and the ex-governor.”

  Fenella made a noise that could have been either a snort or a snigger.

  Ellena glared at the two offworld women and favored Grimes with an almost sweet smile—but her eyes were cold and calculating.

  “Then, Commodore,” she said, “would you mind persuading Commander Lazenby to order Krait’s captain to lift ship at once and proceed forthwith to the Palace? I am no expert in these matters but I imagine that such a small spacecraft will be able to make a landing on the Amazons’ drill ground.”

  “There’s enough room there,” said Grimes, “for a Constellation Class cruiser, provided she’s handled with care. A Serpent Class courier could set down on the front lawn of the average suburban villa.”

  “You are the expert. Lieutenant Phryne, please see to it that an outside communications channel is made available to Commander Lazenby. Get through to the Krait’s captain.”

  Phryne went to one of the consoles against the wall. She punched buttons. The screen came alive. The face of a Federation Survey Service ensign—the single stripe of gold braid on each of his shoulderboards denoted his rank—appeared.

  “Krait here,” he said.

  “Lieutenant Phryne of the Amazon Guard here, speaking from the Palace for the Lady Ellena. Call your captain to the phone, please.”

  “But what business . . . .”

  “The Lady Ellena’s business. Hurry!”

  The young man vanished. In the screen were depicted surroundings that had once been very familiar to Grimes, the interior of the cramped control room of a Serpent Class courier. Since his time, he thought, there had been very few changes in layout. That was all to the good.

  Lieutenant Gupta’s thin brown face appeared in the screen.

  “Captain of Krait here,” he said.

  “Commander Lazenby here,” said Maggie, who had taken Phryne’s place facing the screen.

  “Yes, Commander?” Then, “Can you tell me what is happening? I sent Lieutenant Hale, my PCO, ashore to mingle with the people to find out what he could, but he has not yet returned . . .”

  “PCO?” whispered Ellena to Grimes.

  “Psionic Communications Officer,” he whispered in reply. “A trained telepath. Carried these days by Survey Service ships more for espionage than for communicating over lightyears . . . .”

  And so the mindreader isn’t aboard, he thought. So much the better.

  “Lieutenant Gupta,” asked Maggie, “are you ready for liftoff?”

  “Of course, Commander.”

  “I have orders for you, Lieutenant. You are to proceed forthwith to the Palace, to place yourself at the disposal of the New Spartan government.”

  “I question your authority, Commander. May I remind you that you are an officer of the Scientific Branch, not of the Spaceman Branch?”

  “And may I remind you, Lieutenant, that prior to our departure from Port Woomera, on Earth, you were told, in my presence and the presence of your officers, by no less a person than Rear Admiral Damien, that while on New Sparta you were to consider yourself under my orders?”

  “That is so,” admitted Gupta grudgingly. “Even so, I would remind you that this conversation is being recorded.”

  “So bloody what?” exploded Maggie. “Just get here, that’s all, or I’ll see to it that Admiral Damien has your guts for garters.”

  “But . . . .”

  “Just get here, that’s all.”

  “But where shall I land?” Gupta asked plaintively.

  “Tell him,” said Grimes, “that beacons will be set out in the middle of the Amazons’ drill ground.”

  “Was that Commodore Grimes?” demanded Gupta.

  “It was,” said Grimes. “It is.”

  “May Vishnu preserve me!” muttered Gupta.

  Chapter 23

  Amazingly and extremely fortunately Grimes was able to get some time alone with Maggie and Fenella. Somehow he had been put in charge of setting up makeshift spaceport facilities in the drill ground, with Amazons scurrying hither and yon at his bidding. Among these women soldiers were Shirl and Darleen. Grimes called them to him, on the pretense that they were to act as his liaison with the Amazon officer in charge.

  “Did you get our note?” asked one of the New Alicians.

  “Of course. It was the information I needed. Now, you two, stick close to us . . .” He broke off the conversation to give orders to an Amazon sergeant. “Yes. I want that inertial drive pinn
ace out of the way. The field must be completely cleared.” And to a lieutenant, “Just leave it here, will you? Yes, I can operate it . . .” From the speaker of the portable transceiver came a voice, that of Lieutenant Gupta. “Krait to Palace, Krait to Palace. Do you read me? Over.” Shirl handed Grimes the microphone on its long lead. “Palace to Krait,” he said. “I read you loud and clear. Over.”

  “Lifting off,” came the reply. “Are you ready for me? Over.”

  “Not quite. I shall call you as soon as the marker beacons are set out. Over and out.”

  He was free now to give hasty instructions to the four women. “Gupta is under your orders, Maggie. I want him and all his people out of the ship. You go aboard on some pretext—to the control room. You know how to operate the airlock controls, don’t you? Good. Then, as soon as we get the chance, the rest of us will board. Button up as soon as we’ve done so and get upstairs in a hurry. You can do that much, can’t you? Then I’ll take over as soon as I can.”

  “What if we’re fired on while we’re lifting?” she asked. “I’m no fighter pilot. I’m only a simple scientist with the minimal training in ship handling required for all Survey Service officers in the non-spaceman branches.”

  “Krait’s a Federation ship. I don’t think that Ellena would dare to try to blast her out of the sky. At least, I hope not. And I’ll scamper up to control, to take over, as soon as I possibly can.”

  And then, leaving Maggie and Fenella standing by the transceiver, he, with Shirl and Darleen as his aides, took charge of the final preparations for the reception of the courier. Three powerful blinker lights had been found and adjusted to throw their beams upward and set out in a triangle almost at the exact center of the field. The lights were not the regulation scarlet but an intense blue. It did not matter. Gupta would be told what to expect.

  Gupta had made good time, drifting over from the spaceport on lateral thrust. The arrhythmic cacophony of his inertial drive was beating down from the clear sky as he hung over the drill ground at an altitude of one kilometer. The light of the mid-morning sun was reflected dazzlingly from her sleek slimness.