Ride the Star Winds

by A Bertram Chandler

  “And I no longer have my watch,” Fenella said sourly. “What do we barter next for a crust of bread?”

  “We shall have breakfast without any worry,” said Shirl. She produced from the pouch in which she was carrying her throwing discs some rather squashed bread rolls and Darleen, from hers, some crumbling cheese. “Before we left the tavern we helped ourselves to what we could . . .”

  “That will do for supper,” said Grimes.

  “There will be no supper,” Maggie told him sternly.

  She drew deeply on what little remained of the cigarillo, threw the tiny butt into the fire.

  “Hold it!” cried Grimes—too late. “I could have used that in my pipe.”

  “Sorry,” she said insincerely.

  “We tried smoking once,” said Darleen virtuously. “We did not like it. We gave it up.”

  Grimes grunted wordlessly.

  “I’m not a porcophile,” announced Fenella.

  “What’s that?” demanded Shirl.

  “A pig-lover, dearie. Normally I’ve no time for the police, on any world at all. But I really think, that in our circumstances, we should turn ourselves in. After all, we’ve committed no crime. Oh, there was a killing, I admit—but it was self-defense . . .”

  “And the ‘borrowing’ of a minor war vessel owned by the Interstellar Federation,” said Grimes glumly. “A minor war vessel which, unfortunately, we are unable to return to its owners in good order and condition.”

  “But I was given to understand,” persisted Fenella, “that you and Maggie have carte blanche in such matters.”

  “Up to a point,” said Grimes. “A medal if things go well, a court martial if they don’t. In any case, until things get sorted out—if they ever do—Ellena will be able to hold us in jail on a charge of piracy and even to have us put on trial for the crime. And shot.” He was deriving a certain perverse satisfaction from consideration of the legalities. “It could be claimed, of course, that I have been the ringleader insofar as the act of piracy is concerned. Don’t forget that I have a past record. But you, Maggie, as a commissioned officer of the Survey Service, could be argued to have become a deserter from the FSS and an accessory before the fact to my crime. Shirl and Darleen are also accessories—and, also deserters from Ellena’s own Amazon Guard . . . .”

  “And me?” asked Fenella interestedly.

  “An accessory before the fact.”

  “But it would never come to that,” said Brasidus. “I shall vouch for you.”

  “Of course you will,” said Grimes. “But . . . But if your lady wife is really vicious she’ll put you on charge as an accessory after the fact.”

  “Surely she would not,” said Brasidus. “After all, she is my wife.”

  “Throughout history,” Fenella reminded him, “quite a few wives have wanted their husbands out of the way.”

  “But . . .”

  “Are you sure that she wouldn’t, old friend?” asked Grimes. He sucked audibly on his now empty pipe. “Now, this is the way I see things. We have to get less conspicuous clothing. By stealing. We have to get money. By stealing. Luckily this is a world where plastic money is not yet in common use. In the next town we come to there will be shops—I hope. Clothing shops. And there will be tills in these shops. With money in them. Luckily this is a planet where the vast majority of the population is honest, so breaking in will be easy . . . .”

  “A bit of a comedown from space piracy,” sneered Fenella.

  “I wasn’t a pirate,” he said automatically. “I was a privateer.”

  Then he noticed that Shirl and Darleen had risen quietly to their feet and, as they had done so, had pulled their stunguns from their holsters. Shirl squatted by his side, put her mouth to his ear and whispered, “Go on talking. We shall be back in a few minutes.”

  Then she . . . oozed out of the open door, flattening herself against the frame to minimize her silhouette against the glow of the firelight. Darleen followed suit. Grimes went on talking, loudly so as to drown any queries from the others regarding the mysterious actions of the two New Alicians. He discussed at some length the legalities of privateering while his listeners looked at him with some amazement.

  “It is not generally known,” he almost shouted, “that the notorious Captain Kidd, who was a privateer, was hanged not for piracy but for murder, the murder of one of his officers . . . .”

  “And what the hell has that to do with the price of fish?” screamed Fenella.

  Shirl and Darleen came back. They were carrying between them an unconscious body, that of a man in the black leather and steel uniform of the Spartan Police. His arms were secured behind his back by his own belt and his ankles by the lacings of his sandals.

  “We heard him coming,” said Shirl, “while he was still quite a way off.”

  Brasidus stared at the man’s gray-bearded face.

  “I know him,” he murmured. “I remember him from the old days, when we were both of us junior corporals . . . .”

  “You’ve done better for yourself than he has,” said Fenella.

  “Have I? I’m beginning to think that I’d have been better off as a Village Sergeant than what I am now.”

  The journalist laughed. “You know, Brasidus, you’re by no means the first planetary ruler who’s said that sort of thing to me.”

  The Archon laughed too, but ruefully.

  “But I,” he said, “must be the first one who’s really meant it.”

  Chapter 31

  They sat and waited for the sergeant—whose name, Brasidus said, was Cadmus—to recover. Although the stunguns carried by Shirl and Darleen had been set to MINIMUM STUN the policeman had received a double dosage when ambushed by the New Alicians, being shot by both of them.

  At last the man’s eyes opened.

  He stared bewilderedly at his captors. He struggled briefly with his bonds but soon realized the futility of it. He looked from face to face, longest of all at Brasidus.

  He muttered, “I know you . . . .”

  “And I know you, Cadmus,” said the Archon.

  “But . . . . But it can’t be . . .”

  “But it is.”

  “Brasidus . . . . Or should I be addressing you as Lord?”

  “Brasidus will do. After all, we are old messmates.”

  “Brasidus . . . . But the news has been that you were kidnapped and that your lady wife has achieved power in your absence from Sparta City . . . And now you are here, in my village, in a strange uniform and in the company of . . . of offworlders. Women.”

  “They are my friends, Cadmus. They rescued me. But tell me—what are you doing here? Is there a police search for us?”

  The sergeant laughed. “Not so far as I know. I was checking up on an odd bunch of vagrants who had passed through my village. You were not reported to me officially—the villagers are a close-mouthed lot and regard the Police as an unnecessary nuisance—but I overheard a few things and saw the innkeeper wearing a very expensive watch. I questioned him and he finally told me how he had got it . . . .”

  “Did you get it back?” asked Fenella eagerly.

  “No. The transaction, as he described it, seemed to be legal enough. But do you think you could untie my wrists? I am very uncomfortable.”

  There would be no harm in this, thought Grimes. The man had been disarmed by Shirl and Darleen; his stungun was now stuck into Darleen’s belt and his scabbarded shortsword was being worn by Shirl. Nonetheless he drew his own pistol and covered the man while Darleen untied his lashings.

  “That’s better,” said the sergeant, rubbing his wrists. Then, to Brasidus, “Thank you, Lord.”

  “I’ve told you to call me Brasidus. After all, we’re old friends. How much does this friendship mean to you, Cadmus? Could you help us? I promise you that if you do long overdue promotion will follow.”

  “Don’t insult me, Brasidus. I owe you for the way in which you got me out of that mess some years ago . . . Remember? When that little swine—w
hat was his name? Hyperion?—got himself killed resisting arrest, and he turned out to be Captain Nestor’s boyfriend . . . . No, Brasidus. I don’t want promotion. I like being a Village Sergeant. All that I’d ask of you would be that I’d be appointed to a village of my own choice.”

  “But can you help us, Cadmus? We have to get back to Sparta City as soon as possible. We shall have to travel incognito. We shall need civilian clothing. Money. Transport . . .”

  The sergeant laughed. “Let me tell you why I was looking for you. There’s an order out that all offworlders, wherever they are, are to be rounded up and put in protective custody. They are to be returned to Sparta City and then put aboard the first outbound ship from Port Sparta. In this area Cythera, downriver from here, is the collection point. Trans-Spartan Airlines have a passenger ship standing by there to carry the offworlders to the spaceport.”

  “We shall still need clothing,” said Grimes. “Something less conspicuous than what we are wearing now. And,” he added hopefully, “a few obols spending money. Drinks . . . . Smokes . . . .”

  “I have civilian clothing that I rarely use,” said Cadmus. “I can fit out you, sir, and Brasidus.” He looked the women over and chuckled to himself. “You’ll not believe this,” he went on, more to Brasidus than the others, “but I had a woman for a while. I wasn’t all that sorry when she left me. She married a police lieutenant in Thebes. She left a few rags and I’ve never thrown them out. I thought they might come in handy some time.”

  Fenella laughed.

  “And when I said, Grimes, that we should turn ourselves in to the police you smacked me down, and you had all these marvelous schemes involving breaking and entering and robbing shops . . . But the way it’s turned out it’s the police who’re the only ones who can help us.”

  “But we didn’t go to them,” said Grimes. “They came to us.”

  “What was that about breaking and entering?” demanded Cadmus suspiciously.

  “It was only a joke,” Brasidus told him. “The lady has a peculiar sense of humor. Meanwhile, you are helping us, Cadmus. And you can help us best of all if you tell nobody, nobody at all, that you have found me. In your report to your superiors you will say only that you took charge of a group of six offworlders, two men and four women, and delivered them to the authorities in Cythera.”

  “It shall be done as you ask,” said the sergeant as he undid the lashings about his ankles. He got unsteadily to his feet, assisted by Brasidus. “And now I must get back to my house to find the things that you require. I shall return at dawn, with the hovercar, to take you all to Cythera.”

  “Perhaps we had better come with you,” said Grimes.

  “No,” said Brasidus, “no.”

  “But . . .”

  “Never let it be said,” declared the Archon, “that I do not trust my old friends.”

  The trust was justified.

  Before dawn Grimes was awakened by Shirl who, with Darleen, had shared sentry duty during what remained of the night. The New Alician’s keen hearing had picked up the whine of ground effect engines while Cadmus was still a long distance off, long before Grimes could hear anything.

  He got up from the hard floor, his joints stiff, his muscles aching. He ran a hand over his bristly chin, managed to ungum his eyelids. Shirl and Darleen had kept the fire going so there was light enough for him to see the others—Darleen curled in a fetal position, Maggie on her side, Fenella supine with her mouth open, softly snoring, Brasidus also on his back but as though sleeping at attention.

  He would have sold his soul for a mug of steaming coffee or tea but there wasn’t even any water. He filled and lit his pipe. He hoped that he would be able to purchase more tobacco in Cythera. He hoped that he would have some money on him to make such a purchase.

  He awoke Brasidus, then the others. Only Brasidus—but he was already bearded—and Darleen looked none the worse for wear. Fenella was a mess. Maggie looked at least badly in need of a good hot shower and then a long session with her hairbrushes.

  Grimes went outside and watered a tree. Then he stood and watched the approaching headlights of the police hovercar as it made its way down the winding trail. He had his stungun out, just in case. After a while he was joined by the others.

  “He is a good man, that Cadmus,” said Brasidus.

  “Mphm,” grunted Grimes.

  “I would trust him with my life. More than once in the old days—in the old happy days—I did trust him with my life.”

  “Hearts and flowers and soft violins,” muttered Grimes.

  “What do you mean, John?”

  “Just a Terran saying.”

  The hovercar came into view. It was a big vehicle. It sighed as it subsided in its skirts. One man, Cadmus, got out. He raised his right hand in greeting. Brasidus returned the salutation.

  Cadmus said, “I have the things you need. If you will change now we can be on the way.”

  Shirl and Darleen lifted bundles from the rear of the car, carried them back into the hut. There was clothing as promised—rough tunics and heavy sandals for the men, chitons and lighter footwear for the ladies. There was a leather pouch full of clinking coins that Cadmus handed to Brasidus. And—which really endeared the sergeant to the commodore—there was a flagon of thin, sour wine, two dozen crisp rolls, still warm from the village bakery, and thick slices of some unidentifiable pickled meat. It was a far better meal than the bread and cheese which Shirl and Darleen had brought from the tavern would have been. We should have had that for supper last night, as I wished, thought Grimes.

  Munching appreciatively he sat with the sergeant and watched the women changing. (On some worlds such conduct would have been unthinkable but New Sparta had no nudity taboo, any more than did the home planets of Maggie, Fenella, Shirl and Darleen.)

  Cadmus jerked a thumb toward the New Alicians.

  “Odd-looking wenches, aren’t they? But not unattractive. Me—I’ve always liked a well-fleshed backside . . . .”

  Backs to the bulkhead, thought Grimes, when you’re around.

  “Where’re they from, sir? What is your name, by the way?”

  “A world called New Alice,” replied Grimes. “And my name is Smith. John Smith.”

  He got up, shed his own coveralls and boots, got into the tunic and sandals. He started to buckle on the belt with his weapons then thought better of it. Such accessories would look odd, to say the least, if carried by a bunch of stranded tourists.

  He said, “You’d better take charge of these, Cadmus. And our coveralls.”

  The sergeant pulled a laser pistol from its holster, examined it, replaced it, then inspected one of the stunguns. He frowned.

  “Both pistols,” he said, “with Federation Survey Service markings. The laser with a flat power cell.” He picked up a discarded coverall suit. “And a Survey Service heavy duty uniform . . .”

  “I promise you,” said Brasidus, “that I, personally, will tell you the full story later. But now I can and do tell you that there are things that it is better that you know nothing about.”

  “I can well believe that, Brasidus. And I think, at the risk of being deemed inhospitable, that the sooner I get you all off my hands, out of my territory, the better.”

  “We shall enjoy a happier reunion,” Brasidus told him, “when things are back to normal.”

  “What is normal?” demanded the sergeant. “Nothing has been normal since that man Grimes came here in his ship all those years ago.”

  They bundled up the discarded clothing and carried it out to the car, stowing it in the baggage compartment, together with their belts and holstered pistols. The sun was up when they started off, with Brasidus sitting beside Cadmus, who was driving, and Grimes and the others in the rear cabin which was entirely enclosed, being intended for the occasional transport of arrested persons.

  “Still,” said Fenella, sitting back on the bench and extending her long, elegant legs, “it’s better than walking. And now, Grimes, what’s
the drill when we get to Cythera? And what’s the drill when we get back to Sparta City?”

  “To begin with,” Grimes told her, “my name is not Grimes. It’s Smith. John Smith. And you’re not Fenella Pruin . . .”

  “Oh, all right, all right. I’ve been Prunella Fenn before.”

  “And I’m Angela Smith,” announced Maggie.

  “Must we have second names?” asked Shirl plaintively.

  “Yes,” Grimes told her. “Brown, for both of you. You’re sisters.”

  “But we aren’t.”

  “But you look alike. Shirley Brown and Dorothy Brown.”

  “Such ugly names!”

  “But yours for the time being.”

  “I wish we could see some scenery,” complained Maggie.

  “If you will ride in the Black Maria, dearie,” Fenella told her, “you can hardly expect a scenic drive. But go on, Grimes. Sorry. Smith. Tell us what world-shaking plots have merged from your tiny mind.”

  “I’ve seen this sort of thing before,” said Grimes. “The handling and processing of refugees. The real processing won’t be until we get to Sparta City. We’ll tell the authorities at Cythera that we’re a party of tourists who were set upon and robbed. The bandits took everything—money and, more importantly, our papers . . .”

  “And your obviously expensive wrist companion,” said Fenella, pointing at the device strapped to Grimes’ left wrist.

  “It will be out of sight in my pocket when we front the authorities,” Grimes told her. “As will be Maggie’s.”

  “I wish that my wristwatch had been in that bloody clip joint of an inn,” she complained.

  “You enjoyed the meal it paid for,” Grimes told her.

  “I noticed that you did,” she snarled.

  Chapter 32

  They arrived at Cythera just before noon.

  They saw little of the town itself—not that they much wished to—as Cadmus delivered them to the airport on its outskirts. There was a low huddle of administrative buildings. There were mooring masts, at one of which rode a Trans-Spartan dirigible. She was a small ship and a shabby one, her ribs showing through her skin. Grimes, looking up at her, was not impressed and said as much.