Gateway to Never (John Grimes)

by A Bertram Chandler

  “Somebody,” grinned Flandry, “is going to have a good laugh over this conversation.” He lifted a gloved hand to tap the collar of his suit, just below the throat. Grimes thought with no surprise, A concealed microphone. “In the unlikely event of my not getting back to my ship, all that’s being said is being recorded aboard Vindictive. It is also being relayed to our nearest base. My masters will already have come to the conclusion that I have blundered into a nest of pirates. . . .”

  “Watch it, mate,” growled Williams. “Watch it!”

  In a blur of motion Flandry snapped on his helmet. His voice, only slightly distorted, issued from a diaphragm. He said, “This suit, gentlemen—and Commander Verrill—is proof against anything that you can throw at me. Probably I should not survive a nuclear blast—but neither would you. And now, if you will excuse me, I must return to my own vessel. I strongly advise that nobody try to stop me.”

  Grimes said dryly, “As I recollect it, Captain, the main purpose of this meeting was that we should talk things over. I suppose that you can hear what I’m saying inside that gaudy carapace of yours.”

  “Of course. Say what you must say.”

  “Well, Captain Flandry, we haven’t talked things over. You’ve jumped to conclusions, assumed that I’m a pirate king or some such. If I were, I’d not be content with the rank of commodore! It’s a wonder that you didn’t see that wheel of ours on the black flag as a skull and crossbones! Just try to understand this: as far as we are concerned, you are the intruder.”

  “And how can that be, Commodore?”

  “Been out on the Rim before, Captain Flandry? Or the Fringe, as you people call it?”

  “Nobody comes out here but outlaws.”

  “And yourself, of course. And that Admiral Lord What’s-His-Name before you. But we live on the Rim. We know that here, at the very edge of the expanding universe, the walls between the alternate time tracks are very thin indeed, at times nonexistent. We have good reason to believe that The Outsiders’ Ship has warped the continuum about itself so that this small volume of space is common ground for ships—and people—from all the universes. . . .”

  “You tell a good fairy story, Commodore.”

  The intercom buzzed sharply; then Carnaby’s voice came through the speaker. “Commodore, sir. Wanderer has just broken through! And Mr. Daniels thinks that Adler is very close. She is reporting back to her base in some sort of code.”

  “Reinforcements, Commodore Grimes?” asked Flandry coldly.

  Briefly Grimes was tempted to say yes. But that could have been dangerous. This Flandry, feeling himself to be outnumbered, would be quite capable of ordering his ship to lash out with all weapons like a vicious cornered animal. “No,” he said slowly. “No. Just old friends—or acquaintances, rather—and old enemies.”

  “Commodore, sir!” It was Carnaby again. “Mr. Daniels says there’s another ship using a Carlotti transmitter!”

  “Cor stone me Aunt Fanny up a gum tree!” marveled Williams. “How many more are goin’ to turn up at the Vicar’s flamin’ afternoon tea party?”

  “So,” said Flandry, “we seem to have met at the crossroads of the universe. If you are to be believed, that is. . . . But I think you will agree that I should return to my own vessel.”

  “If I were in your shoes I should be saying the same,” agreed Grimes. “Commander Williams, escort Captain Flandry to the airlock.”

  “And how shall I keep in touch—assuming, of course, that I wish to do so? By flashing lamp?”

  “Get your radio officer to talk to mine on the blinker. Perhaps, between the pair of them, they’ll be able to cook something up.”

  “I’ll tell him now.” Grimes could see, through the frontal transparency of Flandry’s helmet, the man’s lips moving, but he could hear nothing. Then: “Before I go, just one more question. These people in Wanderer . . . are they friendly or hostile?”

  “They could be either. And, to save you the trouble of asking another question, I haven’t a clue as to who or what this other strange ship is.”

  “If this is the Rim,” said Flandry, “you’re welcome to it.” He bowed stiffly to Sonya. “Although life out here seems to have its compensations.”

  Then he followed Williams out to the axial shaft.

  Chapter 12

  GRIMES AND SONYA hurried back to the control room.

  As Carnaby had told him, Wanderer had arrived. She was hanging there in the blackness, slim, sleek and deadly looking, no more than a couple of cables from Faraway Quest. Typical, thought Grimes, of Irene Trafford or the ex-Empress Irene or whatever she called herself these days. But the commodore, over the years, had become more of a merchant officer than a naval officer in his outlook and just could not see the point of exposing a vessel, any vessel, to unnecessary hazard.

  Anyhow, there she was, and close, too close. Grimes thought of actuating his inertial drive to put more distance between himself and the armed yacht—but, damn it all, he was here first. Why should he shift?

  The screen of the NST transceiver glowed into life. Colors swirled, coalesced; and then Grimes was looking into the control room of the other ship. Yes, there was Irene, big and brassy as ever, with the careful touch of nonuniform color, the crimson cravat with the white polka dots, added to her otherwise correct attire. Before she became empress, she had been a tough mate in the Dog Star Line, and this outfit, in Grimes’ universe as well as in hers, was notorious for its rough-and-ready star tramps. She had been mate in the Dog Star Line, and was determined that nobody should ever be allowed to forget it. Beside her sat Benjamin Trafford, officially, master of Wanderer. The little, wiry, sandy-haired man was as neat and correct as he would have been had he still been serving in the Imperial Navy. And behind them Grimes saw the dark, dapper Tallentire, alert at his fire control console; and with him was Susanna: tall, slender and with high-piled and glossy auburn hair. There was Metzenther who, if he shaved off his beard, would be almost the double of Grimes’ Mayhew. There was Trialanne, the Iralian woman: frail, willowy, beautiful, looking as though she had been blown from translucent glass by a master craftsman who was also a superb artist.

  And there was a stranger, a most undistinguished-looking man of medium height, dressed in a drab, gray coverall suit. Normally one would not look at him twice. But in Wanderer’s control room he was a sparrow among hawks and drew attention. Grimes decided suddenly, He’s hard and dangerous, whoever he is. . . .

  “Commodore Grimes,” said Irene in the voice that was almost a baritone.

  “Your servant, ma’am,” replied Grimes politely—after all, she had been an empress—while, behind him, Sonya snorted inelegantly.

  “Come off it, Commodore. Nature never intended you to be a courtier.”

  “You can say that again,” remarked Sonya quietly.

  “Commodore Grimes, may I ask what the hell you and your spaceborne junk heap are doing in our universe?”

  “I might ask the same question of you, Mrs. Trafford.”

  “Just because I jumped time tracks once—and that accidentally—you needn’t think that I make a habit of it.”

  “Neither do I,” said Grimes flatly. This was not quite true, but Irene and her people would not know this.

  “And what’s that odd looking ship like a tin sea urchin? You must know. We saw a man in a space suit jetting off from your vessel to her.”

  “One of yours, isn’t she? Her captain says that she’s the Imperial Navy’s armed scout Vindictive.”

  “Not one of ours,” said Trafford firmly. “We do have a Vindictive, Commodore, but she’s a light cruiser. I should know. I’ve served in her.”

  “Irene,” asked that drab, too-ordinary man in a voice that matched his appearance, “would you mind putting me in the picture? Who are these people?”

  “Mr. Smith,” said the big blonde, “allow me to present Commodore Grimes, of the Rim Worlds Naval Reserve. In his cockeyed continuum the Rim Worlds are self-governing. And Commande
r Sonya Verrill, who is also Mrs. Grimes, of the Federation’s Survey Service. Their Federation is roughly analogous to our Empire. The only other person I know is Mr. Mayhew, who is Faraway Quest’s psionic communications officer.

  “And this gentleman, Commodore, is Mr. Smith, managing director of GLASS. We have been chartered by him to lay claim to and to investigate The Outsiders’ Ship.”

  “The Outsiders’ Ship,” Grimes told her firmly, “is in the territorial space of the Rim Worlds’ Confederacy. Furthermore, we have planted our flag on it.”

  “According to Space Law,” stated Irene, “the mere planting of a flag is not sufficient for laying claim to any planet, planetoid, satellite or whatever. For a claim to be valid a self-sustaining colony must be established. I doubt very much if you have gone so far as that. In any case, The Outsiders’ Ship is within Imperial territorial space.”

  “And which Empire, madam?” demanded a sardonic voice.

  Daniels whispered, “I’ve managed a hookup with Vindictive, sir. That was Captain Flandry.”

  “Who the hell was that?” demanded Irene.

  “The captain of Vindictive,” Grimes replied. “But let us continue our discussion of the finer points of Space Law. As I see it, that thing is neither a planet, a planetoid nor a satellite. It is a derelict. . . .”

  “It could be held to be a satellite,” insisted Irene. “An artificial satellite. . . .”

  “A satellite must have a primary.”

  “Oh, all right, you bloody space lawyer. It’s a derelict. But have you put a prize crew on board? Have you got a towline fast to it?”

  “My flag . . .”

  “You know what you can do with that!”

  In the little screen Trafford looked both shocked and embarrassed. Tallentire tried to hide a grin. Smith did not try to hide his.

  “Mphm,” grunted Grimes disapprovingly.

  “What charming friends you have, Commodore,” commented Flandry.

  “Acquaintances, Captain,” Grimes told him.

  “As you wish. But might I suggest, sir, that all three parties convene to discuss matters in a civilized fashion?”

  “That could be worth considering,” admitted Grimes reluctantly.

  “And might I urge that we do it as soon as possible, if not before? As yet our three ships haven’t opened fire on each other—but who knows what might happen when the other two vessels in the vicinity put in an appearance?”

  “He’s talking sense,” said Sonya.

  “What other two vessels?” demanded Irene. “We only know of the Waldegren destroyer, Adler. Who is the other one?”

  “I wish I knew,” sighed Grimes.

  “Well, Commodore?” snapped Flandry. Grimes was sorry that Daniels had not been able to arrange a visual as well as an audio hookup. He would have liked to have been able to read the other’s expression.

  “Well, Commodore?” echoed Irene.

  “Your place or mine?” asked Grimes, with an attempt at humor.

  “Neutral territory,” said Flandry. “While all the nattering was going on my first lieutenant sent a boarding party to that odd, dome-shaped derelict about ten kilometers beyond Vindictive from your viewpoint. Its late owners were oxygen breathers, although not human. All its life-support systems were intact, and are now functioning. . . .”

  “A Shaara ship,” stated Grimes.

  “The Shaara?” asked Irene and Flandry simultaneously. And then Flandry demanded, “And who the hell are they when they’re up and dressed?”

  “Never mind,” said Grimes. “The Shaara ship will do very nicely.”

  Chapter 13

  THE SHAARA DERELICT was a good place for a meeting. The ship was in good order and condition; her interior lighting glowed brightly; her humming fans kept the clean, untainted air in circulation. How long had they been doing so? Not for too long. The mosslike growth in the hydroponics tanks that the Shaara used for atmospheric regeneration was neither running wild nor withering for lack of the organic wastes that were its food. But of her crew: of the queen-captain, the princess-officers, the drones, the workers, there was no sign—not even so much as a dry exoskeleton. The logbook was still on its ledge in the control room; but no human could hope to read that straggling script.

  She was a latter-day Mary Celeste. She was one of several Mary Celestes in orbit about The Outsider.

  Boats from the three ships had rendezvoused at the airlock of the derelict. Grimes himself had piloted Faraway Quest’s pinnace. With him he had Sonya and Mayhew. Irene had brought with her Trialanne and Stanley Smith, the man from GLASS. Flandry was accompanied only by a simian young officer, almost as broad as he was tall, whom he introduced as Ensign Bugolsky.

  This, of course, was when they were all assembled in the Shaara ship’s control room, standing among the equipment and instruments, some familiar (although modified to suit arthropodal claws instead of human hands) and some weirdly alien. There were cradles of flimsy-looking webbing but no seats. As the vessel was in free fall, to stand was no hardship.

  Flandry, resplendent in his black and gold space armor, removed his helmet. The others removed theirs. Grimes didn’t like the way that the man looked at Irene and Trialanne. He most certainly didn’t like the way that the man looked at Sonya. And he disapproved most strongly of the way in which the three women looked at Flandry. Mental undressing can be a two-way process.

  “And now,” announced Flandry with a wide grin, “I declare this meeting open.”

  “Not so fast, Captain,” Grimes told him. “As the senior officer present I feel that that should be my privilege.”

  “Senior officer? But I represent the Imperium.”

  “What Imperium?” demanded Irene nastily.

  “Commodore!” Mayhew’s usually soft voice was sharp with urgency. “Commodore! Sir!”

  Grimes waved him aside. “Later, Commander Mayhew—unless my ship’s in danger. She’s not? Good. Then let’s get this business settled first.” He turned to the others. “I’m not overly rank conscious, and I’m insisting on my seniority only because Rim Worlds’ sovereignty is involved. To begin with—we are in Rim Confederacy’s territorial space. Secondly, I outrank everybody present in this control room. . . .”

  “In a pig’s arse you do!” flared Irene.

  “But I do, madam. I concede that you were an empress, but you’re not now. Legally speaking you’re only the chief officer of Wanderer. . . .”

  “And the owner of Wanderer, Grimes! Which is more than you can say regarding yourself and your precious rustbucket!”

  “And I still claim,” stated Flandry, “that Wanderer and Faraway Quest are no better than pirates, attempting to steal Imperial property.”

  “It’s a great pity that GLASS is not operative in your universe,” said Smith in a flat voice. “But since we are discussing legalities, I feel that I, as the charterer of Mrs. Trafford’s vessel, should have some voice in the matter.”

  “Irene!” Trialanne was trying to gain the attention of the ex-empress. “Irene!”

  “Pipe down, damn you! Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “Obviously,” said Sonya coldly, “it would be pointless to put it to the vote who should be chairman of this meeting. Everybody is quite convinced that he has a more valid claim than anybody else. I could say—and, come to that, I do say—that I represent the Federation, but I have no desire to be yet another complication. . . .”

  “But a very charming one,” murmured Flandry, flashing that dazzling grin.

  “Thank you, Sir Dominic.”

  “Very charming, and, I feel, highly competent. For the record, I do not recognize the Interstellar Federation. Nonetheless, I feel that Mrs. Grimes—or, if you prefer it, Commander Verrill—should preside over this meeting. She appears, in spite of her marriage . . .” he made it sound as though he meant “disastrous marriage” . . . “to be the nearest thing we have to a neutral. Will you, then, take charge, Commander Verrill?”

  She smiled
at him. “Thank you, Sir Dominic. I will.” She raised her voice slightly. “To begin with, all of you, this situation calls for straight thinking. We are met together in what is, to all of us, an alien ship. We represent, between us, three different cultures, at least four different governments. But we are all—and I include you, Trialanne—human. . . .”

  “So you say,” growled Irene.

  Sonya ignored this, went on. “As an aid to straight thinking, recapitulation will be in order. We are all of us here, all of us now—that much is obvious. But it should be obvious, too, that The Outsider, The Outsiders’ Ship, warps normal space time. It exists simultaneously in our universe, and in yours, Sir Dominic, and in yours, Irene—and yet it is from outside all our universes. . . .”

  Somebody was grabbing Grimes’ arm, the pressure evident even through the thick sleeve of his suit. It was Mayhew. The telepath was pointing to the hatch which gave access to the control room from the body of the ship. Through it a helmeted head was rising slowly.

  “I—we—were trying to tell you!” muttered Mayhew.

  “Tell me what?” growled Grimes.

  In reply the other shrugged—no easy feat in a space suit—infuriatingly. Bloody prima donna! thought Grimes. But it can’t be all that important. Probably somebody from one of the ships with some trivial message.

  “It could be,” Sonya was continuing, in a schoolmistress voice, “that we are all of us here on sufferance. . . .”

  The shoulders of the new arrival were now visible, but the faceplate of his helmet was almost opaque. Grimes stared at those armored shoulders. They carried the broad gold stripe of a commodore, the winged wheel of the Rim Worlds Navy. Who the hell could it be? Lannigan? DuBois? Why should either of them be sent out here to interfere with him, Grimes? And this interloping commodore had somebody with him, wearing commander’s badges of rank, and the stylized star cluster of the Federation. . . .

  Sonya’s voice trailed off into silence. She had seen the newcomers at last. So had all the others.