The Gateway to Never

by A Bertram Chandler

  "You sure make life complicated, Skipper," complained Williams.

  "Life is complicated. Period. Now, your work boat. . . ."

  "In working order. But if you intend a long trip it'll be so packed with power cells that there'll be room for only one man."

  "Good enough. And your engineers, I think, have been passing the time doing what repairs they can to Malemute, and have been in and out of Clavering's workshop borrowing tools and such."

  "Correct."

  "By this time they should be on friendly terms with Clavering's mechanics."

  "If they don't know by this time which of the boats it is that Clavering takes out to the Bitter Sea, they should."

  "They probably do know."

  "I'd like a transponder fitted to Clavering's boat, and the necessary homing gadgetry to your workboat. I don't know quite how Clavering's boat can be bugged without somebody seeing it done—but, with a little bit of luck, it should be possible. Mphm. Suppose, say, that the inertial drive main rotor has to be carried to the shop so that work can be done on it with one of the lathes. Suppose that everybody—everybody but one man—is clustered around the thing, admiring it. And suppose this one man manages to stick the transponder to the underside of the hull of Clavering's boat when nobody is looking."

  "Possible, Skipper, just possible. We already have transponders in stock; they're used quite a lot in salvage work. We've plenty of tubes of wetweld in the stores. An' if Clavering's mechanics know nothin' about the drug racket they'll not be expecting any jiggery pokey from my blokes. Yair. Could be done."

  "And how's the repair work on our Carlotti set coming on?"

  "Not so good."

  "A pity. I'd like to do some monitoring. Just who does Clavering talk to?"

  It was some time before the plan could be put into effect. The boat that Clavering usually used for his trips to the Bitter Sea—and for his prospecting trips—was undergoing an extensive and badly needed overhaul. Even without wind-driven abrasives to severely damage the exterior of an atmosphere craft, the air itself was strongly corrosive. Too, most of the work force was engaged on necessary maintenance to make Sally Ann thoroughly spaceworthy for her charter trip.

  Macedon came in, and aboard her, as a passenger, was Billinghurst. Sub-Inspector Pahvani was with him, and a half dozen other Customs officers. Unlike policemen, Customs officers, when out of uniform, look like anybody else. Billinghurst and his people had no trouble in passing themselves off as ordinary tourists.

  XXIII

  "Looks like you've been having trouble, Commodore," commented Billinghurst to Grimes as the pair of them stood by the Devil's Stewpot watching what seemed to be the majority of Macedon's passengers wallowing in the murky, bubbling, steaming water. "Sabotage?"

  "Accident," replied Grimes. "Sobraon was lifting off, and one of her stern vanes snagged one of Rim Malemute's mooring wires."

  "Accident? You don't really believe that, do you?"

  "I've handled ships for long enough, Mr. Billinghurst, to know that accidents do happen."

  "All the same, Commodore, it's suspicious," stated Billinghurst.

  "How so?" asked Grimes, just to be awkward.

  "As I recollect it, the idea was that you were to run a survey of the planet, officially looking for sites for the naval base, and actually looking for places where dreamy weed might be brought in. I don't suppose that you've even started to do that."

  "How right you are."

  "Meanwhile, you're living in the lap of luxury, and the taxpayer is picking up the tab for your hotel bills."

  "The taxpayer forked out for your fare in Macedon, and will be picking up the tab for your hotel bills."

  "That's different."

  "How so?"

  "Because, Commodore, in matters of this kind I'm a trained investigator. You're not. You can't do anything unless you've a ship under you. When Rim Malemute was accidently knocked out of the picture you were knocked out of it too. I did expect some cooperation from you in the way of transport, but now I'll have to manage as best I can by myself. Don't worry; I've done it before."

  "I'm not worrying," said Grimes. He looked with some distaste at an enormously fat, naked man waddling down to the hot pool like a Terran hippopotamus. He asked, "Why don't you try the stewpot, Mr. Billinghurst? You could afford to lose some weight."

  "Because I've more important things to do, that's why. I'm not here on holiday."

  "Neither am I, unfortunately."

  "So you say."

  "So I say. But tell me, just how do you intend to go about things? I realize that I'm just an amateur in these matters, so I'd like to know how a real professional operates."

  Billinghurst lapped up the flattery. He said, "In any sort of detective work the human element is, in the final analysis, far more important than all the fancy gadgetry in the laboratories. One informer—voluntary or involuntary—is worth ten scientists. I have chosen to accompany me young, keen officers who are not unattractive to the opposite sex. Sub-Inspector Pahvani you, of course, already know. That is Sub-Inspector Ling just coming out of this absurdly named hot pool."

  "Certainly a tasty dollop of trollop," remarked Grimes as the golden-skinned, black-haired, naked girl passed them.

  "She is a very fine and capable young woman," said Billinghurst stiffly. "Anyhow, I have young Pahvani and three other men, Miss Ling and two other women. All of them are provided with ample spending money. All of them are to pass themselves off as members of well-to-do families on Thule—they'd have to be well-to-do to afford the fares that TG Clippers charge and a quite long holiday here—enjoying a vacation. Captain Clavering has quite a few unattached men and women among his staff here, and my officers have been instructed to . . . to make contacts."

  "All over contacts," said Grimes.

  "Really, Commodore, you have a low mind."

  "Not as low as the mind of the bastard who first thought of using good, honest sex as an espionage tool. But go on."

  "Well I'm hoping that some of Clavering's people become . . . er . . . infatuated with some of my people. And I hope that they—Clavering's people—talk."

  "So you can build a case on bedtime stories."

  "You put things in the most crude way, Commodore Grimes."

  "I'm just a rough and tough spaceman, Mr. Billinghurst. It has been rumored that my rugged exterior hides a heart of gold—but there are times when even I am inclined to doubt that."

  "Who's that young man whom Miss Ling is talking to?"

  "That's Clavering's chef. Like all good chefs he is always tasting as he cooks. A daily session in the Devil's Stewpot helps him to keep his weight down. He's a Farawegian. He started his career in the kitchen of the Rimrock House at Port Farewell. Mphm. Your Miss Ling is coming back with him for another good sweat session. She must be conscientious. I hope she doesn't lose any weight; she's just right as she is."

  "And does this chef know anything?"

  "He certainly knows cooking. Ah, there's your Mr. Pahvani, getting on with the job. Does he use steel wool on his teeth, by the way? That smile, against his brown skin, is really dazzling. The recipient of the charm that he's turning on is Clavering's head receptionist. She's from Thule, but she prefers it here. Oh, looks like my Commander Williams is making a conquest from among Macedon's customers. I must say that I applaud his good taste."

  "That," said Billinghurst, "is my Miss Dalgety that he's talking to. I'll have to warn her off him."

  "Mistakes will happen. After all, you can hardly expect Williams to wear uniform for his daily dip, can you? Any more than you can expect Miss Dalgety to appear in her Sub-Inspector's finery."

  "You seem to have made some enquiries, Commodore," admitted Billinghurst reluctantly. "Perhaps you will oblige me with thumbnail sketches of all Clavering's staff here."

  "All? Devils as well as humans? I'm afraid you're out of luck as far as the devils are concerned. At first I thought I was getting them sorted out by the colour of their sca
les—and then I found out that this varies from day to day. If you look really hard you can tell which are males and which are females, though."

  "Humans, of course, Commodore."

  "Well," began Grimes, "there's Clavering himself. Spaceman. Hangs on to his Federation citizenship. Still makes an occasional voyage in command of Sally Ann, also brings in and takes out ships whose Masters want a pilot."

  "I suppose he was piloting Sobraon when she fouled your Malemute."

  "As a matter of fact, he was. Wife, Sally Clavering. Tall blonde, very attractive. Ex-purser, and looks after the books of the hotel, the chemical works on the Bitter Sea and the bottling plant. Then there's Larwood, another Federation citizen, Chief Officer of Sally Ann and Assistant Port Captain, Assistant Hotel Manager and assistant everything else. Very quiet. Doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, has no time for women. I think there was a marriage once, but it broke up. Ah, here's Mrs. Clavering. Sally, this is Mr. Billinghurst, an old acquaintance from Port Forlorn. Mr. Billinghurst, this is Mrs. Clavering."

  Billinghurst bowed with ponderous dignity. He said, "I am very pleased to meet you." Then, "This is quite a place you have here. I'd heard so much about it that I just had to come and see it for myself."

  "I hope you enjoy your stay, Mr. Billinghurst. We do our best to make our guests feel at home."

  Home was never like this, thought Grimes. A slight earth tremor added point to his unspoken comment.

  Billinghurst was unshaken. It would have taken a major earthquake to unsettle him. He asked, "Do you have these tremors often, Mrs. Clavering?"

  "Quite frequently. You soon get used to them."

  "I hope you're right. I hope that I shall. Some people never get used to motion of any kind, and have to take all sorts of drugs to help them to maintain their physical and psychological equilibrium."

  She laughed. "We dispense one very good drug for that purpose ourselves, Mr. Billinghurst. You can get it in the bar. It's called alcohol."

  "I think I could stand a drink," admitted Billinghurst. "Will you join me, Mrs. Clavering? And you, Commodore?"

  "Later, perhaps," she said. She dropped the robe that was all she had been wearing. "I always have my daily hot soak at this time."

  Grimes got out of his own dressing gown. "And so do I."

  He followed the tall, slim woman into the almost scalding water. They found a place that was out of earshot from the other bathers. She turned to face him, slowly lowered herself until only her head was above the surface. Grimes did likewise, conscious of the stifling heat, of the perspiration pouring down his face.

  She said, "I don't like your fat friend, John."

  "Neither do I, frankly."

  "I never have liked customs officers."

  "Customs officers?"

  "Don't forget that I was once a spacewoman, a purser. I know the breed. But what were all those not so subtle hints about drugs? Did he expect me to offer him a pipeful of dreamy weed?"

  "Perhaps he did," said Grimes. "Perhaps he did."

  "Surely you don't think . . .?"

  "I wish I didn't."

  "But. . . ."

  "But the bloody stuff is coming into the Rim Worlds from somewhere, Sally. I know of one young man, an officer in our ships, who got himself emptied out because of it. I know of two other young people who were killed because the container of the weed, dropped from Ditmar, was destroyed, by remote control and by explosion, to stop it from falling into Customs' hands. I'm not saying that Ian knew anything about that; I'm sure that he didn't. But—on this world of all worlds!—he should bear in mind the old proverb: He who sups with the devil needs a long spoon."

  "You're . . . accusing Ian?"

  "The evidence—and what you yourself have told me—point to his being somehow implicated. If he gets out from under now I shall be able, I think and hope, to shield him from the consequences. If he doesn't. . . ."

  She looked at him long and earnestly. Then, "Whose side are you on, John?"

  "I'm not sure. There are times when I think that stupid laws breed criminals, there are times when I'm not certain that the laws are so stupid. When it comes to things like dreamy weed there's too much hysteria on both sides. It's far easier to handle drugs like alcohol, because nobody has made a religion of them."

  "Have you talked to Ian yet, as I asked you to?"

  "I've tried once or twice, but he's very hard to pin down."

  "Don't I know it! But I think he realizes that the game's up and that he's let whoever has been bringing the stuff in that the trade is finished."

  "He hasn't been able to get out to his bottling plant where he has his private transceiver. His air boat is still under repair, and it would take too long by road."

  She said, "Surely the Port Captain is allowed to play around with the Carlotti equipment in the control tower in his own spaceport."

  "Oh, well," said Grimes, "I'll shed no tears if it turns out that I've come here for nothing."

  XXIV

  Seeing a planet as a tourist is not the same as running your own survey, but it is better than not seeing a planet at all. Macedon, with all her experience-hungry passengers, was in, and the three large atmosphere fliers, the aircoaches, were now completely overhauled and ready for service.

  Billinghurst sneered at Grimes and Williams, saying that they were having a glorious holiday at public expense. He preferred to stay in Inferno Valley, keeping his eyes and his ears open. The only one of his officers to go on the tours was Denise Dalgety—but not so that she could continue to turn her considerable charm on to Williams. She had transferred her attentions to Larwood, who was in charge of the sightseeing expeditions. Grimes felt sorry for the dark, morose assistant manager. He would have liked to have warned him. More and more it was becoming obvious that he appreciated the company of the plump redhead who, ever more frequently, was able to coax an occasional smile from him. Sooner or later there would have to be a rude awakening.

  The first trip was to the Painted Badlands. Grimes and Williams rode in the leading air coach, the command vehicle, which was piloted by Larwood. They had been given seats right forward, on the starboard side, immediately abaft the pilot. In the corresponding seats to port were an elderly Terran businessman and his wife, both looking slightly ludicrous in the heavy duty one piece suits, as much metal as fibre, that were mandatory wear. There was a single seat to port of that occupied by Larwood; in this, of course, sat Denise Dalgety. In any form of transport whatsoever rank hath its privileges. She, apart from Williams, was the only young passenger in the coach. Her companions had said, rather too loudly, at the bar the previous night, that they didn't want to be herded around with a lot of old fossils.

  Dawn was just coming in when the three coaches lifted from the landing field close by the hotel. Their inertial drives hammering erratically, they climbed slowly, drifting a little to the west so that the fantastic bubble structure, multihued and luminescent, lay beneath them. Grimes permitted himself to wonder what would be the effect of a few handfuls of heavy steel darts dropped from the aircraft.

  Slowly they climbed, hugging the north wall of the canyon which, in this light, was blue rather than red, splotched with opalescent patches where grew the phosphorescent lichen and fungi. Slowly they climbed, and with every meter of altitude they gained the orange ribbon of sky directly above them widened. "Aero-space Control to Painted Badlands Tour," came a matter-of-fact voice from the transceiver. "There's as much of a lull as you're likely to get. Keep clear of the Devil's Phallus. There's turbulence. Over."

  "PB Tour to Aero-Space Control. Roger. Over."

  Grimes grinned to himself. This, he knew, was all part of the window dressing.

  Larwood said into his microphone, "Make sure your seat belts are fastened, folks. We may get a few bumps when we clear the canyon rim."

  There were a few bumps, but very minor ones. The coaches were lifting under maximum thrust now, and below them was Inferno Valley, a deep, dark slash in the face of the plane
t. To the south towered the Erebus Alps, peak after conical peak, from each of which a pillar of flame-shot smoke rose almost vertically. Dim in the distance were the Devil's Torches, volcanoes even more spectacularly active than those of the Alps. And beyond those? The Infernal Beacons? It was hard to be sure. Already the early morning clarity of the atmosphere was becoming befouled.

  The note of the inertial drive changed as Larwood brought his coach around to a northerly heading. He announced, "If you look hard, folks, you'll see the Bitter Sea out to port, on our left. We shall be stopping there overnight on our way back. Most of the day we shall be spending in the Painted Badlands, of course."

  "Pilot!" This was an old lady well back in the coach. "We've come all this way and you've shown us practically nothing of the Erebus Alps and the other ranges."