Gateway to Never (John Grimes)

by A Bertram Chandler

  They started almost at once—the guitars snarling, the drums thudding, the piano holding the tune together. The fat girl yelled into the microphone and her voice, vastly amplified, came at them from all corners of the hall.

  “Driftin’

  “An’ dreamin’,

  “No lyin’,

  “No schemin’

  “Just you, an’ me,

  “An’ he, an’ she,

  “Just we,

  “Ain’t yer gonna drift an’ dream some time with me?”

  So it went on, for quite some time. Grimes was not enjoying himself much. He suspected that Billinghurst was not either. But young Pahvani was reveling in the music with its odd, broken rhythm—like an inertial drive unit slightly on the blink, thought Grimes nastily—as were most of the others in the crowd. But the real Roll-Around had not yet started.

  When it did there was, at last, some rhythm in the music—unsubtle, compelling. As though stirred by a giant spoon the crowd began to move, clockwise, around the hall, marching in step to the insistent drums, stepping high, bringing feet thudding down on the reverberant floor. It was impossible not to join in, physically as well as psychologically. To the snarling guitars and growling drums they marched, to the amplified bass beat of the flogged piano, to the words that the fat woman was belting out in an almost baritone.

  “Rolling free, rolling free!

  “Give a shock to the blocks—One, two, three!

  “Oh, we’ll roll the bastards under

  “And we’ll break them all asunder,

  “Rolling free, rolling free, rolling free!”

  Grimes was singing as loudly as anybody. So was Pahvani. Billinghurst was merely muttering the words, without enthusiasm.

  Round, and round, and round again. Pahvani had got his shirt off somehow. Grimes, sweating profusely, would have liked to have done the same, but in this crush it was impossible. He saw that some of the women had, with fantastic agility, contrived to strip themselves stark naked.

  “Over land, over sea, we go rolling, rolling free,

  “And we’ll always go rolling along!

  “Over hill, over dale, you will see our dusty trail,

  “As we always go rolling along.”

  Round, and round, and round again. Tramp, stamp, tramp, stamp! Overhead the lights were swinging to the percussive heat of the music.

  “An all you blocks stop growlin’,

  “Or this is what we’ll do!

  “The spheres was made for rollin,

  “They’ll roll right over you!”

  “I was hoping,” gasped Billinghurst, contriving to whisper and pant simultaneously, “to pick something up here.”

  “That one looks quite nice,” suggested Grimes, who had got his second wind. “A bit sweaty, but aren’t we all?”

  “No . . . not . . . that! Information.”

  “A rolling sphere gathers no moss,” Grimes told him.

  Round, and round, and round again. Tramp, tramp, tramp! Stamp, stamp, stamp!

  “When the spheres come rolling in,

  “When the spheres come rolling in,

  “We’re gonna be in that number

  “When the spheres come rolling in!”

  To Grimes’ right there was a skinny, half-naked, almost-breastless girl who had been edging closer and closer to him with every circuit of the floor. He was beginning to wonder if a pick-up were intended, was trying to work out ways and means of achieving a painless brush-off. She just wasn’t his type. And then he saw that a plump, copiously perspiring young man had joined her in this dance that was more like a march. He heard him whisper to her, “0200 hours at the Fitzroy Crossing. Pass it on!” His message delivered, he vanished into the mass of dancers.

  Somehow the skinny girl had inserted herself between Grimes and the almost-exhausted Billinghurst. She was singing softly, in time to the music,

  “When the weed comes dropping in,

  “When the weed comes dropping in,

  “Oh two hundred, Fitzroy Crossing,

  “When the weed comes dropping in!”

  The music changed, but she went on singing,

  “Dreamy free, dreamy free,

  “Dreamy weed, dreamy weed, dreamy free . . .”

  She made a face at Billinghurst, flashed a smile at Grimes, and wriggled away through the crowd.

  Round, and round, and round—but with every circuit edging closer to the exit.

  “Oh, we’ll roll, away up yonder!

  “Oh, we’ll roll, away up yonder!

  “Oh, we’ll roll, away up yonder!

  “When they roll away up yonder we’ll he there!”

  And Billinghurst, getting his wind back, sang the final, “We’ll be there!” with great emphasis.

  Chapter 8

  BUT THEY ALMOST WEREN’T THERE.

  There was a minor riot outside the Dominey Hall. Accounts as to its cause differed. One morning paper said that a crowd, singing, “We’ll roll the bastards under!” had charged a group of policemen. The other paper said that the police had charged a small group of people from the Roll-Around who were going their ways quite peacefully.

  Actually it had been Grimes’ fault. Those noisy songs, with their primitive rhythm, had carried him back in time, to when he was a young and normally rowdy cadet in the Federation’s Survey Service. He had remembered something that he and his shipmates had been fond of singing whenever there was a minion of the law within earshot. He had insisted on teaching the words to Billinghurst—who was not amused—to Pahvani—who was—and to a half-dozen young men and girls who were going the same way as themselves.

  “There’s a policeman on his beat,

  “Over there, over there!

  “There’s a policeman on his beat,

  “Over there!

  “There’s a policeman on his beat,

  “I can smell his sweaty feet,

  “There’s a policeman on his beat,

  “Over there!”

  During the third, noisy rendition of this ditty a dozen policemen tried to silence the songsters. Punches were thrown. Stunguns were used, set so as to inflict the maximum pain without causing unconsciousness. A large body of revelers rushed to the aid of Grimes and his companions. Police air cars clattered overhead, dropping arrest meshes, wire nets that ignored the specially treated police uniforms but that clung to everything else in a tight grip. The air cars ranged over the street like seine net fishermen over a school of fish. Their catch, dangling under the aircraft, was hauled ignominiously to the station house. Grimes, Billinghurst, and Pahvani would have spent the night in cells had not Pahvani, who had been acting as liaison officer between police and customs, been recognized by the lieutenant in charge. He had the three Lorners hustled away from the other prisoners, ostensibly for interrogation. Shouts of sympathy and encouragement followed them.

  As soon as he could safely do so Billinghurst snarled, “You almost ruined everything, Commodore!”

  “When among spheres—roll!” replied the unrepentant Grimes.

  “You, Lieutenant Whatever-Your-Name-Is,” snapped Billinghurst to the police officer. “I am the chief collector of customs for Port Forlorn, in overall charge of this drug investigation. This is Commodore Grimes, of the Rim Worlds Navy, who’s working with me.” He glared at the commodore. “Or against me, to judge by tonight’s little effort. Sub-Inspector Pahvani you already know.”

  “And what can I do for you, sir?”

  “I want vehicles, and I want men. Armed men.”

  “And a map,” contributed Grimes. “And all the geographical information you can give us.” He waited for Billinghurst to say something, then added, “It seems that there’s to be a drop at Fitzroy Crossing. At 0200 hours tomorrow.”

  “There’s a wall map in the Captain’s office,” said the lieutenant. “Follow me, please.”

  The map was a large-scale topographical one, covering Port Last and the surrounding countryside to a distance of fifty kilometres
from the City Centre. “The Fitzroy Crossing is not far from here,” said the police officer, jabbing with his finger. “There’s a bridge, as you see, both road and monorail. On the north side of the bridge there’s Davidsham Village—with one senior constable who, by this time, will be tucked up warm and snug in his little bed.” He laughed. “I was stationed there myself before I was promoted to sergeant. Nothing ever happens in Davidsham. Even so, I should hardly think that the drop will be to the north of the Crossing.

  “Now, on the south side we have the wheatfields. And,” his finger jabbed again, “here we have the racecourse. I hope you gentlemen can manage to be here for the Ultimo Cup Week—it’s really something.”

  “Landing facilities?” asked Grimes, who was not at all interested in horses.

  “You could set a cruiser down there, Commodore. And a couple of destroyers. No G.C.A. of course. Ha, ha.”

  “There probably will be,” said Grimes. “A small beacon, mounted on a car. Mphm. Now, Mr. Billinghurst, if we go charging out there in police vehicles we’ll scare off the reception committee—and whoever’s making the delivery. I suggest that we land somewhere to the north of the racecourse, well away from the road, and make our way to the landing site on foot. We shall want a guide. Do any of your men know the district, Lieutenant?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Good. And have you any quiet cars? Inertial drive kicks up one helluva racket, especially on a still night like this.”

  “We have the blimps, sir. They have been developed especially for police use on this planet.”

  “They should do.” And, Grimes thought, Once again the airship comes back into service. He said, “But I thought you had no really serious crime on Ultimo.”

  “There are gambling schools, sir, very often meeting out in the country. They play a game of chance, tossing two coins. When it comes to catching the gamblers red-handed we find the silent approach technique very useful. The blimps are propeller-driven, with almost noiseless electric motors.”

  “Make it blimps, then.”

  “Very good, sir. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll ring the precinct captain and start getting things organized.”

  “Before you do, Lieutenant, is there a washroom handy? I’d like to get this artificial foliage off my face. I’d just hate to get it wound round a blimp’s propeller.”

  Chapter 9

  AIRSHIPS had always fascinated Grimes. Now and again, on worlds lagging in technological development, and on planets whose people had a commonsense attitude towards unnecessary power consumption, he had been a passenger in such craft. The Shaara, for example, could build spaceships at least as good as anything built by man, but for atmospheric flights they favored lighter-than-air machines.

  The blimps of the Ultimo police were well conceived, well designed, well constructed. They were semirigid ships rather than true blimps, however. They had heating coils inside their balloons to give the helium additional lift, and there was an arrangement of bands and nets whereby the lift could be reduced by compression of the gas. Water ballast was carried, but except in emergencies there would be no need for any valving of helium or dumping of ballast. Below the rigid spines were slung the gondolas, one to each ship, and each with a single pusher screw.

  Grimes, Billinghurst, and Pahvani rode in the leading ship, the one piloted by the police lieutenant. With them were four constables. Grimes sat with the pilot in the little control cab at the fore end of the gondola, watching everything with interest. Mooring lines were cast off by the ground crew, but the ship still sat stolidly on its skids, although above the gondola the gas bags, enclosed in their sausage-shaped integument, were swaying and creaking. The lieutenant’s hand went to a switch on the control panel and almost immediately there was the subdued hum of an electric motor. Decompression? wondered Grimes. But apart from the mechanical noise, which soon stopped, nothing at all seemed to be happening.

  The lieutenant swore under his breath. Then he called back into the main cabin, “Excuse me, Mr. Billinghurst, how much do you weigh?”

  “I . . . I haven’t checked lately, Lieutenant.”

  “Then it’s time you did!” muttered the young man.

  There was a fresh sound, the splashing of water on to the concrete of the blimpyard. Now the ship was rising, smoothly, silently, up past the lighted windows of the police barracks, up, up, until, a checkered pattern of crisscrossing street lights, Port Last lay below her. Grimes poked his head out of an open side window, looked astern. One by one, great dark shapes, their black bulks in silhouette against the glow of the city lights, the other five airships were swimming upwards.

  The lieutenant started his motor then. It was almost silent, and only a faint swishing sound came from the propeller. Slowly he brought the ship round to her heading, explaining, “We have to be careful how we handle these things. They’re just a little flimsy.” Gradually the lights of the city, of the scattered outer suburbs, drifted astern.

  It was a fine night, clear, almost windless. The single moon of Ultimo, named Ceres, was hanging high in the black sky, the empty sky of the Rim Worlds. It was just past its full but did not give much light; satellites so large as to be almost sister planets are rare throughout the Galaxy. Nonetheless, the surface of the Fitzroy River reflected what little illumination there was, a faintly gleaming silver ribbon winding through formless masses of darkness. On the horizon was the dim cluster of yellow lights that was Davidsham.

  Silently the squadron flew on, invisible from the ground now that it was clear of the glare from the city, keeping the river to starboard, the distant village fine on the starboard bow. Grimes borrowed the pilot’s night glasses. He could see, now, the straight black line that cut the silver ribbon. The bridge . . . He looked more to his left, trying to pick out the racecourse, but without success.

  “You’ll not find it, sir,” laughed the lieutenant, “unless you’ve eyes like a cat. But you see the horseshoe bend, just this side of the village?”

  “Mphm. Yes.”

  “There’s a field there that’s been harvested. That’s where we’re landing.”

  “And then we get out and walk.”

  “Yes. Then we get out and walk.”

  The airship was losing altitude as the pilot applied negative dynamic lift. Grimes could make out features on the ground below now, as long as they were not too far distant. He could see the paleness of the fields that were yet to be harvested, the darkness of those where reaping had already taken place. Another electric motor started up, and from above came a faint creaking as the gas bags were compressed. The ground seemed very close now, and seemed to be rushing past at a fantastic speed. Grimes started to worry about tall trees and the like, but told himself that the lieutenant knew what he was doing. In any case, it would be unlikely that there would be any trees in the wheatlands to rob the precious grain of its nutriment.

  The pilot snapped rapid orders to the other ships on his radio, then stopped the main motor, restarting it almost at once in reverse. The ground below slowly lost its retrograde progression relative to the ship, but was coming up to meet her as the buoyancy was squeezed out of her balloons. There was a dry crackling from under the gondola as the skids brushed the stubble. Then, with all motors stopped, she landed. Men jumped from the side doors, quickly and efficiently moored her with screw pegs.

  “All ashore!” ordered the lieutenant cheerfully.

  Grimes jumped down from the gondola to the ground, cursing to himself as the stubble scratched his bare calves and shins. He should have changed out of this absurd rig; getting rid of that insanitary beard had been a step in the right direction, but not far enough. It was fortunate that the correct footwear for a Roll-Around consisted of very heavy sandals. He was joined by Billinghurst and Pahvani. He stood with them to watch the other airships coming in. He wondered how those landing managed to avoid those already down, and was told by the lieutenant that on occasions such as this dim lights were shown on the tops of the gas b
ags.

  There was a very cautious flashing of down-pointed, shielded torches. The lieutenant detailed a man to stay with each ship, then said to Grimes, “You and the other two had better stay close to me, Commodore. We’ll walk to the racecourse from here, making as little noise as possible. Before we get there we’ll spread out to surround the position—just in case there’s anybody there. If there’s not—some of us will wait in the Owners’ Stand, some by the Saddling Paddock and the rest by the Tote. That’ll give us a good coverage.”

  “And good odds?” asked Grimes.

  He did not much enjoy the walk over the fields. There was enough moonlight to make the going not too difficult, but the sharp spiny stubble was drawing blood with almost every step. And the air, despite the lack of wind, was decidedly chilly. And things were rustling in the dry stalks. He had visions of venomous reptiles, insects or the like, and was only slightly reassured when his guide whispered to him that it was only cats—of Terran origin—hunting a small and harmless (apart from its appetite for grain) indigenous rodent.

  Behind him, despite his bulk, Billinghurst was moving silently, as was Pahvani, and as far as noise was concerned the policemen might not have been there at all. Grimes murmured something complimentary to the lieutenant and was told that this was the Gaming Squad, used to creeping up on parties of gamblers. He asked if the fines collected from such desperate criminals sufficed to pay for the airships and other equipment, and was answered by a pained silence.

  Whispered orders were passed back and the policemen spread out to surround the racecourse. Grimes could just hear the faint voices from the lieutenant’s wrist radio as the members of his force reached their assigned positions. Then the order was given to advance, with caution. Ahead, rails glimmered whitely in the faint moonlight. Grimes, following the leader, ducked under them and on to the track. There were vague shapes in front of them, moving towards them—but it was only the men who had entered the course by the Owners’ Stand and who were now on their way to the Tote. They reported briefly to their officer that they had seen nobody, and that nothing larger than a cat had registered on their biodetectors.