Grimes flashed a glance at Hendrikson, hushed intently over his console. He was ready; possibly rather too ready. He looked back at the screen. He thought, he was almost sure, that the lines of the strange vessel showed a human sense of proportion. He snapped at Daniels, “Haven’t you raised her yet?”
“I’m . . . I’m trying sir. I’ve tried every frequency known to civilized Man, and a few that aren’t . . . Ah! Got it!”
There was a babble of sound from the speaker of the NST transceiver. Alien gibberings? No . . . It sounded more like human speech, but horridly distorted, garbled.
Daniels spoke very slowly and distinctly into his microphone. “Rim Worlds Confederacy’s cruiser Faraway Quest to unknown vessel. Faraway Quest to unknown vessel. Come in, please. Come in, please. Over.”
In reply came the meaningless gabble.
Daniels was patient, carefully adjusting his tuning. “Faraway Quest to unknown vessel. Please identify yourself. Please identify yourself. Over.”
“A shi? A shi?”
What ship? What ship? It could be, thought Grimes.
“A shi? A shi? Dringle na puss. Gleeble.”
Tickle my puss? Hardly.
“We’ll try visual,” said Grimes. “Pass me the key, will you? I don’t think that my Morse is too rusty.”
Williams passed him the Morse key on its long lead. Grimes took it in his right hand, his thumb on the button. He sent a series of “As”, the general calling sign. He assumed that somebody, by this time, would have the Quest’s big searchlight trained on the stranger. He kept his attention on the image in the telescope screen.
Yes, he, whoever (or whatever) he was seemed to know Morse. The acknowledgment, the long flash, the Morse “T”, was almost blindingly obvious.
“What ship?” sent Grimes. “What ship?”
From the other came a succession of “As”. Grimes replied with “T”. Then, “What ship?” he read. “What ship?”
So . . . so was the stranger repeating parrot fashion, or was he being cagey?
“What ship?” sent Grimes again. “What ship?”
“What ship?” he received.
He sent, not too slowly but carefully, making sure that each word was acknowledged, “Identify yourself, or I open fire.”
He grinned when the reply came, “You’d better not.”
He said aloud, “Not only human, but our sort of people.” He flashed, “This is the Rim Worlds Confederacy’s cruiser Faraway Quest. You are intruding into our sector of space. Please identify yourself.”
“Imperial Navy’s armed scout Vindictive. Rim Worlds Confederacy’s Navy not listed in Jane’s. Never heard of Rim Worlds Confederacy. Who the hell are you?”
“Commander Williams,” said Grimes, “Jane’s Fighting Ships is in the computer’s library bank. Check Vindictive, will you? And the Imperial Navy.”
“Will do, Skipper. But the only Imperial Navy we have is the Waverley one.”
“I know. But check it, anyhow.” Again his thumb worked rhythmically on the key. “This is Faraway Quest. This is Rim Worlds’ space. You are intruding.”
“You are intruding.”
Grimes grinned again, sent, “Can’t we talk this over?”
For long seconds there was no reply. Carnaby reported that the stranger was no longer closing the range, was maintaining her distance. Hendrikson announced, unnecessarily, that his weaponry was still in a state of readiness.
Daniels asked, “Can I have the key, sir? If I have a yarn with her radio officer I shall be able to find out what frequencies to use. . . .”
And then Vindictive started flashing again. “Request permission to board.”
“One man only,” Grimes replied.
More time passed. Then, “Please prepare to receive my boat.”
Oh, no, thought Grimes. Oh, no. The dividing line between a boat and a torpedo is a very narrow one. He was satisfied by now that Vindictive’s people were humans; but the human race has a long record of viciousness and treachery, far too often actuated by the very highest motives.
“One man in a suit,” he sent, “will meet one man in a suit, midway between our two vessels. They will return to Faraway Quest together. You may close the range between ships to ten miles. Do not forget that all my weapons are trained on you, and that my gunnery officer has a very itchy trigger finger.” He said aloud, “And I have a very sore thumb.”
“Agreed,” sent Vindictive at last. “Closing. Please remember that you are a big target.”
“Commander Mayhew,” asked the commodore, “can you pick up anything, anything at all, from those people?”
“Faintly . . .” replied the telepath slowly. “Very faintly. I sense suspicion, distrust. They will fire if they think that they are about to be fired upon.”
“And so will we. And now—who’s for the space walk? Don’t all answer at once.”
There was no shortage of volunteers, but Mayhew’s rather high voice was distinctly heard above the others. “There’s only one possible choice, sir. Me. When I get close to whoever they send I should be able to read his thoughts more easily. And Clarisse can look after the shop in my absence.”
“Mphm. Very well, Ken. Get suited up. And—look after yourself.”
“I always have done, John, all the years that you’ve known me.” He said nothing to Clarisse, but it was not necessary. Accompanied by Williams he left the control room.
“Please let me know when you are ready,” flashed Vindictive.
“Willco,” replied Grimes.
Chapter 11
“I SUPPOSE that it has occurred to you,” said Sonya, “that this Vindictive, of which no mention is made in our version of Jane’s Fighting Ships, could be from that Irene woman’s universe. After all, she is supposed to be a unit of the Imperial Navy.”
“The thought had flickered across my mind,” admitted Grimes, “even though I’m not, and never have been, an intelligence officer.” In spite of the absence of gravity he contrived to lay back in his chair. “We rather gathered, the last—and the only, so far—time that we met the ex-empress that her employers, these GLASS people, were regarded by the Imperial Government as more than somewhat of a nuisance. Shit stirrers, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
“I’ve heard worse. Continue.”
“So it is reasonable to suppose that if GLASS want to get their paws on The Outsider and The Outsider’s secrets, the Imperial Navy could be sent out to make sure that they didn’t. But . . .”
“What is your ‘but’?”
“But I don’t think that Vindictive was built by the same technology as Irene’s Wanderer. Wanderer, like Faraway Quest, had all sorts of odd lumps and bumps on her hull, but she didn’t look like a deep space hedgehog. Too, neither Wanderer nor ourselves experienced any trouble in initiating either Carlotti or NST radio telephone hookups.”
“H’m. I suppose we could get Clarisse to ask that man Metzenther, aboard Wanderer, if they’re being followed. Not that you can call it being followed when the pursuer gets there hours before the pursued.”
“That, my dear, is very sound tactics, when you can manage it.”
Williams’ voice came over the intercom. “Commander Mayhew suited up an’ in the after airlock.”
Then, over the transceiver that was operating on the suit frequencies, Mayhew reported, “All ready, sir.”
Grimes flashed the signal to Vindictive, read the reply, “The captain is on his way.”
“A do-it-yourself-trust-nobody type,” commented the commodore. “Tell Commander Mayhew to shove off.”
He felt a slight twinge of anxiety—but, after all, Mayhew was a spaceman as well as a telepath, and Williams would have given him a thorough briefing. It would be simple enough; just switch on the suit’s reaction unit and steer straight for the other ship, keeping eyes skinned for the blinker that would be flashing from Vindictive’s captain’s helmet. But did this peculiar Empire in some peculiar universe observe the same rules of spacem
anship as were observed in Grimes’ continuum?
Obviously it did. All the lights of Vindictive went out, as had all the lights showing from Faraway Quest. This would make it easier for the space walkers; each of them now would see only the little, but bright beacon toward which he was steering.
Carnaby had the radar on short range, was tracking both space-suited men. He was speaking into the microphone of the transceiver. “That’s fine, Commander. Steady. . . . Steady as you go. . . . Better shut off your propulsion. . . . Be ready for a retro-blast. . . .”
Grimes, staring through the viewport, could see the two blinking lights almost as one, so nearly in line were they. Surely Mayhew hadn’t much further to go. . . .
“Brake, Commander,” came Carnaby’s voice. “Brake! Yes, he’s braking too. Now . . . just a nudge ahead . . . that’s it!”
And from the transceiver’s speaker came Mayhew’s whisper. “Contact. Contact established. He’s tough, Commodore. Hard to get inside. . . . But. . . I can assure you that he intends no treachery.”
Grimes took the microphone. “Does he know that you’re . . . prying?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Can he hear you? Me?”
“No, sir. I’m careful that our helmets don’t come into contact.”
“Good. Go through the motions of searching him for any weapons that he may have outside his suit. Then you can touch helmets and talk to him.”
“Very good, sir.”
There was a silence that seemed to drag on and on. At last Mayhew said, “Be ready to receive us on board, Commodore.”
Williams called up from the after airlock to say that Mayhew and the man from Vindictive were aboard, and that he was bringing them up to Control. Grimes found himself wondering what his visitor would be like. He was an officer in the armed forces of an empire—and empire sounded far more glamorous than federation or confederacy. He’s probably got a title, thought Grimes idly, and a string of letters after his name half a light year long. He glanced around his control room, missing nothing. All of his officers were in correct uniform, although some of them were more than a little untidy in appearance. Druthen, of course, was his usual slovenly self—but he was a mere civilian, a passenger.
Williams came up through the hatch. “Commander Mayhew, Skipper,” he announced cheerfully. Mayhew, still suited up but carrying his helmet under his left arm, followed Williams. “And Captain Sir Dominic Flandry, of the Imperial Navy. Sir Dominic, may I present Commodore John Grimes, of the Rim Worlds Naval Reserve?” Commander Williams was plainly enjoying himself.
Grimes looked at Flandry. He was not at all sure if he liked what he saw. The captain of Vindictive was a tall man, and conveyed the impression of slimness even in his bulky spacesuit. The suit itself was gleaming black with gold trimmings. The helmet that Flandry carried tucked under his arm was also black, with a wreath of golden oak leaves on its visor, with, as an ornate badge, a golden eagle with outspread wings gripping a conventionalized planetary globe in its talons. His face was harsh, with a fierce beak of a nose, and the pencil line black moustache over the sensual mouth should have looked foppish—but somehow didn’t. The glossy black hair was touched with gray at the temples. The eyes were a pale blue, and very bleak.
“Your servant, Commodore,” said Flandry stiffly.
That’ll be the sunny Friday when you’re any man’s servant, thought Grimes. He said, “Good to have you aboard, Captain. Or should I say, ‘Sir Dominic’?”
“Either will do, Commodore.” Flandry’s sharp eyes were flickering around the control room, missing nothing, missing nobody. They lingered for a few seconds on Clarisse—and for longer on Sonya. Of course, thought Grimes, she would be wearing that indecent micro-skirted Federation uniform. Flandry said, “You carry a mixed crew, Commodore.”
“Mphm. Yes. Although the ladies are specialist officers. Mrs. Mayhew. . . .” Clarisse unbuckled herself from her chair, came forward. “This is Captain Flandry, of Vindictive. Captain Flandry, this is Mrs. Mayhew, our assistant psionic communications officer . . .”
“Psionic communications? A telepath . . . and I take it that Commander Mayhew, whom you sent out to meet me, is your chief psionic communications officer. . . .”
He looked at Clarisse again, and suddenly she flushed. Flandry laughed. “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry, my dear. I should have had the sense to keep my thoughts under proper control.” But he did not sound sorry, and Clarisse, although embarrassed, did not look at all resentful.
“And this is Commander Verrill, of the Federation’s Survey Service. She is acting as the Federation’s observer on this expedition.”
“And not a telepath, I take it,” murmured Flandry. He looked as though he were undressing Sonya with his eyes—not that she needed much undressing, thought Grimes, in that apology for a uniform. And he did not like the way that she was looking back at the Imperial captain.
Grimes introduced his other officers, and then Druthen. He said, “And now, Sir Dominic, I suggest that we withdraw to my quarters for discussion. Commander Williams, please accompany us. Commander Mayhew, Mr. Daniels—please let me know at once if either of you hear anything further from Wanderer or Adler.”
“Wanderer?” asked Flandry, with a lift of one eyebrow.
“One of yours, possibly. She’s the private yacht of the ex-Empress Irene.”
“Then not one of ours,” laughed the other. “We don’t have an empress. We never have had an empress. I, sir, have the honor.” and he made it sound a dubious honor, “of serving His Imperial Majesty Edouard XIV. And this Adler?”
“A destroyer sailing under the flag of the Duchy of Waldegren.”
“The Duchy of Waldegren? Never heard of it.”
The officers were looking at Grimes and his visitor curiously. The commodore decided that they had better continue their discussion in greater privacy. He said, “This way, please, Sir Dominic.”
On the way to his suite he noticed that Flandry did not handle himself very well in free fall. So, probably, Vindictive ran to some sort of artificial gravity, and when in orbit her officers did not have to cope with the problems of weightlessness. He decided to get one of his engineers aboard the armed scout if it were at all possible. There must be quite a few technologies aboard her well worth copying.
The sliding door opened as Grimes approached it. He stood to one side, waving the others into his day cabin ahead of him. Flandry moved clumsily, shuffling his feet, in their magnetically soled boots, on the deck.
Grimes said, “This is Liberty Hall. You can spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard.”
Sonya looked at him coldly. “This is the first time I’ve heard you say that for quite some time, John. I’d hoped you’d forgotten it.”
Flandry flashed her a smile. “It is a vivid figure of speech, Commander Verrill. Have you known the Commodore for a long time?”
“Yes. I’m married to him.”
“Commodore Grimes, have you any unmarried ladies among your crew as attractive as the two ladies I have already met?”
“No, I haven’t.” Then, in a less surly tone of voice, “Sit down, Captain. And perhaps you will take a drink with us. . . .”
“I’ll be glad of the drink—but this suit’s not made for sitting in. And when in a strange ship, quite possibly a hostile ship, I prefer to keep it on.”
“As you please, Captain Flandry. And you’ll have to take my word for it that the drinks aren’t drugged or poisoned.” Grimes pulled himself into his own chair, strapped himself in. Sonya followed suit. Williams was about to do likewise when Grimes told him to look after the refreshments. Efficiently the commander produced bulbs of the drink required. Flandry asked for scotch.
“Your health, Captain Sir Dominic!”
“Your health, Commodore Grimes.” Again there was that sardonic smile. “But should I, as a loyal servant of His Imperial Majesty, be drinking your health?”
“And why the hell shouldn’t you be?” dema
nded Grimes crustily.
“And why should I, Commodore—if you are a commodore. Oh, I’ll let you have your rank. Even pirates must have officers.”
“Pirates? What the hell are you getting at?”
“Pirates.” Flandry’s voice was harsh. “Pirates, setting themselves up as petty kings on the fringes of a disintegrating empire. Laying their grubby paws on Imperial property, even planting their absurd flag on it. Tell me, Commodore Grimes, what genius thought up that black banner with a golden wheel on it? What does it signify?”
Grimes didn’t answer the question directly. He snapped. “Imperial property? I suppose you’re referring to that heap of alien ironmongery that somebody left in our backyard. The Outsiders’ Ship, as we call it, lies within Rim Worlds’ territorial space.”
“Does it? And who, or what, are the Rim Worlds? The Outsider, as we call it, was first discovered by Admiral Lord Wolverhelm, who commanded the Fringe Sweep.”
Grimes eyed Flandry cautiously. He thought, The bastard’s enjoying himself. He’s trying to make us lose our tempers. He said, “Neither the Federation nor the Confederacy runs to ‘sirs’ and ‘lords.’ The Empire of Waverley does, of course—but it would never dream of sending an expedition out here without our permission.”
“Odd name for a ship—the Fringe Sweep . . .” commented Williams.
“That, sir, was the designation of the mission,” Flandry told him coldly.
“In any case,” put in Sonya, who had been silent for too long, “The Outsiders’ Ship was first discovered by Commander Maudsley of the Federation’s Survey Service. But the Federation recognizes the territorial rights of the Confederacy.”
Gateway to Never (John Grimes) Page 19
