Gateway to Never (John Grimes)

by A Bertram Chandler

  Disembarkation at a port like Inferno Valley—as Grimes took pleasure in pointing out to Billinghurst—was not a lengthy procedure. There were no port health, immigration, or customs officials to slow things up. Within seconds the first passengers were trooping ashore.

  Grimes looked at them curiously. They were like—yet markedly unlike—the spheres with whom he had rolled at Port Last. The women’s heads were shaven, the men all had long hair and beards. But most of them belonged to a different age group, were older, and wore long dark robes instead of form revealing clothing.

  Larwood came to greet the first group down the ramp. He saluted the man who seemed to be in charge. He asked courteously, “Are you the . . . er . . . leader, sir?”

  The tall, gray-haired and gray-bearded man replied, “Yes, my son. I am the Guru William. Is all prepared for us?”

  “All is prepared, Your . . . Your Reverence. Accommodation for two hundred people. Our main hall converted into a temple, to your specifications.”

  “It is good,” said the Guru.

  “It is good,” echoed those of his followers within earshot.

  “Somethin’ odd about these bastards, Skipper,” whispered Williams to Grimes.

  “Mphm. Yes.” The commodore looked at the members of the Church of the Gateway as they trooped past him. They walked as though they were in a state of trance, gliding over the hard-packed red sand somnambulistically. Every face, young, not so young, or old, male or female, wore the same expression of . . . of beatitude? When the saints go marching in, thought Grimes irreverently, I don’t want to be of their number.

  Clavering came down the ramp from the forward airlock, letting the escalator do all the work. He looked very worried. He started to walk to where Larwood was still talking with the Guru and his party, then paused where Grimes, Williams, and Billinghurst were standing.

  Grimes said, “Nice Sunday school outing you have here, Captain.”

  Clavering almost snarled, “That’s not funny, Commodore!” then hurried on.

  “What’s bitin’ him?” asked Williams.

  “The same as what’s just starting to nibble me, probably,” Grimes told him. “Are you like me, Commander Williams? Do you feel uncomfortable when you’re among really pious people, men and women who evince a passionate belief in something utterly irrational? Have you ever tried to argue with some fanatical true believer who’s doing his damnedest to convert you to his own brand of hogwash? That’s the way I feel now, looking at this bunch.”

  “Live an’ let live,” said Williams airily.

  “I quite agree. That’s the viewpoint of the cynical, tolerant agnostic. But don’t forget that it’s always been the overly religious who’ve taken a righteous delight in the slaughter of nonbelievers. Crusades, Jihads, bloody revolutions to establish the dictatorship of the proletariat—you name it, they’ve done it.”

  “I think these are a harmless bunch, Skipper, even if they are a bit odd. No more than rather elderly Blossom People with a few extra trimmings. Just spheres who’re a bit too stiff in the joints for any really hearty rolling.”

  “Mphm. You could be right. I hope you are right.” He turned to look at the devils who were bringing passengers’ baggage ashore. “They don’t seem to have much gear with them, do they?”

  “Don’t suppose they need much,” said Williams. “Just a change of robes an’ a spare pair o’ sandals. A tube of depilatory cream for the sheilas. That’s all. Somethin’ to be said for travellin’ light.”

  Billinghurst broke into the conversation. He said, “Well, Commodore, the balloon should be going up at any time now.”

  “What balloon?” asked Grimes, just to be awkward.

  “You know,” growled the fat man. “As long as you’re ready to do what has to be done when it goes up.”

  “If it goes up,” corrected Grimes.

  “It will, Commodore, it will.”

  Grimes said to Williams as the chief collector moved ponderously away, “I hate to have to say it, but I’m afraid he’s right.”

  It was, however, all of five days before the balloon did go up.

  Those five days were . . . interesting. The People of the Gateway did not behave as the previous tourists had done. They went on no sightseeing tours. They did not frequent the Gambling Hell, neither did they simmer and freeze themselves in the hot and cold pools. They infuriated the chef by demanding very plain foods, although their consumption of alcoholic drinks was far from low. Morning, afternoon and evening they met in the made-over dining hall, which they called their temple. They made no attempt to convert outsiders, but neither did they refuse admission to the curious.

  Grimes attended one or two services, of course, as did Williams and Rim Malemute’s officers, and Billinghurst and his people, and the human staff of Inferno Valley. There was no singing, no sermonizing. The worshippers sat on the floor, in near-darkness, around the central dais on which the Guru William was seated. Every time he would open proceedings by saying, “Brethren, let us meditate. Let us open our minds to the true reality.” There would be silence, often a long silence, broken only by the subdued sound of breathing. Then somebody would utter a single word, such as, “Peace.” Another silence. “Darkness everlasting.” Silence again, and a growing tension. “The end of light.” “The end of life.” “Not-life, not-death.” More silence. “The Gateway to Infinity.” “Open the gate, open the gate, open the gate!” “The Gateway to Never.” “Open the gate!”

  “Gives me the willies, Skipper,” Williams confessed to Grimes.

  “I prefer religions that go in for Moody- and Sankey-style hymns,” said the commodore.

  “Yeah. At least you can fit your own kind o’ words to most o’ the tunes.” He began to sing untunefully,

  “Whiter than the whitewash on the wall!

  “Whiter than the whitewash on the wall!

  “Wash me in the water

  “Where yer wash yer dirty daughter

  “An’ I shall be whiter than the whitewash

  “On the wall!”

  “Please, Commander.”

  “Sorry, Skipper. But sittin’ crosslegged among that bunch o’ morbid hopheads makes me wanter relax with a spot o’ light blasphemy when I get outside. An’ you said that you liked Moody an’ Sankey.”

  “I’m not so sure that I do, now. Meanwhile, what do our spies report?”

  “Captain Clavering’s aircar is ready to lift off at a second’s notice. So are all the coaches. An’ so is our work boat. Clavering’s buggy is still bugged. Absolutely no joy with any of our radio equipment. But I have the boys on watches, an’ they’ll let us know at once if an’ when anything happens.”

  “And our friend Billinghurst has his boys and girls on watches too. But I think that if Clavering does lift off to a rendezvous with SB Three it will be either around dawn or sunset.”

  “An’ Mrs. Clavering? What’s she sayin’ these days?”

  “Nothing much. Nothing much at all. She’s worried stiff, of course. She did sort of hint that this would be the very last time, and that if I called my dogs off I should be . . . er . . . adequately recompensed.” He grinned wrily. “Unluckily Billinghurst’s dogs are in the hunt as well as mine, and I can’t imagine any woman wanting to be nice to Billinghurst.”

  “People have probably said the same about you, Skipper.”

  “Remind me, Commander,” said Grimes, “to have you busted down to spaceman fourth class when we get back to civilization.”

  Chapter 30

  THE BALLOON WENT UP AT DAWN.

  Substituting literal for metaphorical language, Clavering’s private atmosphere flier lifted off at dawn. Grimes and his officers were already standing to, although none of them had incurred suspicion by venturing outside their hotel rooms with the exception of the watchkeeper aboard Rim Malemute. The young man hurried to the Lucifer Arms to inform the others that Clavering was on his way—to where?—but Grimes, even through the double, air-filled skin of his sleep
ing quarters, had heard the unmistakable irregular beat of an inertial drive unit.

  The plan of operations was put into effect at once. The watch officer ran back to Rim Malemute and switched on the NST transceiver. This was still useless insofar as the reception or transmission of messages were concerned, but it was capable of jamming. He then carefully jockeyed the tug’s work boat out of its bay, brought it to the landing ground in front of the Lucifer Arms.

  Meanwhile Williams and his chief officer, both armed with stunguns, had gone to the hangar in which the resort’s aircoaches were garaged. When Grimes and Billinghurst entered the building it was to hear Williams saying to Larwood, “I hereby requisition these vehicles for service in the Rim Worlds Navy.”

  “Stop playing at pirates, Commander Williams!” growled Larwood. “You’ve no legal right to do anything of the sort. These coaches are the property of a citizen of the Federation!”

  Grimes intervened. “Mr. Larwood,” he said, “I can, quite legally, requisition these vehicles—and I am doing so. I shall give you a receipt, and there will be adequate compensation.”

  “Legally? Come off it, Commodore.”

  “Yes. Legally. I am empowered to requisition any air or space vehicles of Rim Worlds’ registration for naval service. I can’t touch your precious Sally Ann or her boats—she’s Federation registry. But your coaches . . . they are licensed to carry passengers by the Confederacy.”

  “You bloody space lawyer!”

  Sally Clavering had appeared on the scene. Her face was pale and drawn. She said, “Don’t argue, Ron. It’ll get us nowhere. He has the law on his side.” The look she shot at Grimes should have shriveled him up where he stood.

  He said, meaning it, “I’m sorry, Sally.”

  “You should be. For your information, just in case you’re interested, Ian has gone to have it out with Drongo Kane, to tell him to find somebody else to handle his trade at this end, on one of the other Rim Worlds.” She addressed herself to Billinghurst now, as well as to Grimes. “But Ian has broken no laws, and you know it.”

  “Did you say Drongo Kane?” demanded Grimes. So his had been the oddly familiar voice recorded by Denise Dalgety.

  “Yes.”

  “And would the name of his ship be Southerly Buster?”

  “Yes. Southerly Buster III.”

  “Come on, Commodore.” Billinghurst was impatient. “We can’t afford to waste any time.”

  “I know, I know. And I know now whom we’re up against. And I don’t like it.” He grinned. “Or perhaps I do. There’re a few old scores to settle!”

  Grimes took the work boat up. He hoped that by this time Clavering would be sufficiently distant for the small craft to be beyond the range of his radar. He hovered above Inferno Valley, making altitude slowly, until the commandeered air coach had lifted above the canyon rim. It was not possible for him to exchange any words with Williams, who was piloting the vehicle; the interference being broadcast by Rim Malemute’s defective transceiver inhibited any sort of communication. In any case, it would have been advisable to maintain radio silence. Would this jamming effect the functioning of the transponder? Grimes had been assured that it would not, but he was not sure until he saw that the needle of the compasslike indicator had steadied on to a definite heading. He looked into his radar screen. There was nothing but ground clutter. Good. If he could not “see” Clavering, then Clavering could not “see” him.

  He turned the boat on to the indicated heading, gave her maximum forward thrust. She vibrated frighteningly, excessively, but she went. He put her on to automatic pilot. It was awkward, he was beginning to find, to have to do everything himself. He had become far too used, over the years, to the control rooms of ships, with attentive officers at his eyes and hands. He felt that he could do with at least three pairs of the former and two of the latter. He looked into his radar screen again. The coach was following him. He transferred his attention to the gyro compass, then to the chart. Clavering, it seemed, was making for Dante’s Pass. So Kane’s landing place was somewhere in the Painted Badlands.

  He looked out through the viewscreens—out, ahead and down. The dawn lull wasn’t lasting. Below him the surface of the desert was obscured by driving clouds of red sand; ahead, the Great Smokies were all but invisible. It was obvious, too, that the boat was sagging very badly to leeward. He returned to his instruments to make the necessary course adjustment. He knew that Williams, an excellent pilot, would be doing the same—if he had not already done so.

  Another course adjustment . . .

  He thought, The little bitch is going sideways.

  And was that the Great Smokies showing up in the radar screen? It must be. Still there was no sign of Clavering, although the indicator needle jerked to starboard, showing that he had entered the Pass.

  And if I keep him ahead, thought Grimes, stopping himself from changing course, I shall pile up on Mount Beatrice.

  He made the necessary adjustments to his radar. Yes, there they were, Dante and Beatrice, marking the entrance to the Pass, steadily approaching the centre of the screen. He changed to a shorter range setting, and a shorter one, put the boat back on to manual steering. The wheel, mounted on the control column, bucked in his hands. The little craft had been designed to be used in airless space rather than in an atmosphere, a turbulent atmosphere at that. Williams, he thought with a twinge of jealousy, would be having a far better time of it in his air coach.

  Hell! That’s too bloody close!

  Grimes yanked the control column violently to port, applying lateral thrust. Through his starboard window he saw black, steaming rocks dropping away from him. He must have missed them by the thickness of a coat of paint. He jerked the column to starboard as he saw, through a rift in the billowing smoke and steam, one of Mount Dante’s minor craters almost below him. Hastily he reduced speed, hoping that Williams would not overtake him and crash into his stern.

  He threaded his way through the pass on radar, breathed a great sigh of relief when he was out and clear. He would have liked to have got out his pipe, but he dared not take his hands from the controls. He flew through the last of the heavy smoke and steam into relatively clear air—but only relatively clear. Although on this side of the Smokies it was almost calm, some freak of atmospheric circulation had brought down a thick haze, a yellow murk through which the fantastic rock formations looked menacingly. And Grimes was obliged to make a rock-hopping approach, as was Williams astern of him. If they flew above the eroded monoliths they would be picked up by Drongo Kane’s radar. The master smuggler was not a man to neglect precautions.

  Grimes watched his indicator needle, keeping Clavering ahead as much as possible. At the same time he watched his radar screen and tried to keep a visual lookout. Afterwards, when he told the story, he would say, “If the Venus of Milo had been equipped with arms I’d have knocked them off—and I as near as dammit castrated the Colossus of Eblis!” This was exaggeration, but only slightly so.

  On he flew, and on, perspiring inside the protective suit that he was wearing, his hands clenched on the wheel, his attention divided between the indicator needle, the radar screen, the forward window of his cramped cabin and the chart of the area, one blown up from the brochure issued to tourists. He passed as close as he dared to the rock formations so that he could sight them visually and identify them. Now and again, caught by a freak eddy, he had to apply vertical or lateral thrust, or both together. The work boat complained but kept on going.

  Then, ahead on the radar screen but still obscured by the haze, loomed a great mass. There was only one formation that it could be, and that was Ayers Rock. But surely the Rock did not have a much smaller monolith just over a kilometre to the east of it.

  Grimes decided not to reduce speed. By so doing he could well forfeit the advantage of surprise. He ignored his radar, concentrated on a visual lookout. And, at last, there, on his port bow, was the sullenly brooding mass of red granite and, right ahead, indistinct but cleare
r with every passing second, the silvery spire of a grounded spaceship. By the foot of the ramp from her after airlock was a small atmosphere craft.

  The commodore applied maximum forward thrust and, at the same time, using one hand, worked his respirator over his head. He put the boat on full reverse when he was almost up to and over Clavering’s craft. He cut the drive, slammed down heavily on to the red sand. He was out of the door and running for the ramp before the dust had settled. He was dimly aware that Williams, just behind him, had brought the coach in to a hasty landing.

  It was too much to hope for—but it seemed that his arrival had been neither seen nor heard. The airlock outer door remained open, the ramp remained extended. He pulled his stungun from its holster as he ran up the gangway. Impatiently he waited for Williams and Billinghurst to join him in the chamber of the airlock; it was too small to hold more than three men. The others—Rim Malemute’s people and the customs officers—would have to wait their turn.

  Williams used the standard controls to shut the outer door, to evacuate the foul air of Eblis and to introduce the clean air of the ship into the chamber. All this must be registering on the remote control board in the control room, but perhaps there was no officer on duty there. He pushed the knob that would open the inner door. It opened.

  A tall figure stood on the other side of it to receive them—a big man who, if he lost only a little weight, could be classified as skinny. His face, under the stubble of grayish-yellow hair, was deeply tanned and seamed, and looked as though at some time in the past it had been completely shattered and then reassembled not too carefully.