“Major!”
“Commodore . . .”
“That man of yours. The wrestler . . .”
“What man? Where?”
“There . . .”
But as Grimes pointed he realized that Titanov was gone—and with him, presumably, had gone the dancing girls. But there was a little heap of uniform clothing not far from Dalzell, and a stunclub was on top of the garments.
“What about that?”
“The fire’s hot, Commodore. Thinkin’ of gettin’ stripped off myself . . .”
“But . . .”
But the fire was hot, and it was bloody absurd wearing this heavy khaki . . . Grimes had unbuttoned his jacket when his ears were assailed by a strident blast of music. He turned to look at its source. One part of his mind was horrified—another, almost as strong, part accepted what he saw as being right and proper. Strutting by came one of his stewardesses. He remembered her name, Maggie Macpherson. She was wearing nothing but her kneeboots and jauntily angled forage cap, and she was playing a set of the native bagpipes, and playing them as well as such instruments can ever be played. He even recognized the tune, the traditional Scotland The Brave. After her pranced a small procession—three of her fellow stewardesses, a quartet of junior engineers, a half-dozen villagers, three of whom were children.
He thrust out a detaining hand. “Miss Macpherson!”
The music squealed to a dying-pig finish.
“Miss Macpherson, what is the meaning of this?”
“What is the meaning of what, sir?”
“You . . . You aren’t properly dressed . . .”
“I’m wearin’ me cap, sir . . .”
“Gie us The Scottish Soldier, Maggie!” shouted one of the engineers.
“John!” It was Mayhew, his voice urgent.
“What is it, Ken?”
Grimes could not hear the telepath’s reply for the renewed skirling of the pipes. “Speak up, man!”
“It’s the wine, John,” almost shouted Mayhew. “Not the same wine as we had analyzed. Something in it. Mushrooms, I think . . .”
“Could be . . .” muttered the commodore. Whatever it was, the drug was converting what had been a feast—a rather rough one, admittedly—into an orgy. The scene illuminated by the fitful flaring of the fires could have been painted by Hieronymus Bosch. And yet Grimes was feeling revulsion only because he thought that he should be feeling revulsion. But as long as he kept his uniform on, that part of his personality which he regarded as “the commodore” would remain in the ascendancy.
He demanded, “Can you and Clarisse control my people?”
“It’s all we can do to keep ourselves in control . . . Carnaby is still more or less in possession of his senses, and Brenda Cole . . . Apart from them . . . But you must do something, John. There’re our weapons lying around for anybody to pick up . . .”
And where the hell was Sonya? Grimes looked around for her, but could not see her. Accompanied by Mayhew, he hurried back to where he had left her. Her jacket was on the grass, and her slacks, her belt with the holstered pistol—and, beside them, what looked like a wolfskin breech-clout and something that gleamed metalically. It was the steel arbalest.
But he, Grimes, was responsible for the entire ship’s company, not just for one woman, even though she was his wife. (And, he knew very well, she was quite capable of looking after herself.) First of all he would have to put a stop to this . . . this orgy, and then there would be some sorting out.
He raised his wrist transceiver to his mouth.
“Commodore to Quest. Commodore to Commander Williams. Do you read me? Over.”
It was a woman’s voice that answered. Grimes remembered that Ruth Macoboy, the assistant electronic communications officer, was among Williams’ shipkeepers.
“Quest here, Commodore. Bill—Commander Williams, I mean—is coming to the transceiver now.”
“Williams here, Skipper. Anything wrong?”
“Plenty, Bill. First of all, get Hendriks to plaster the village with Morpheus D. Don’t open fire, though, until I give the word. We shall be getting away from the place as soon as we can. Send somebody from the ship to meet us with half a dozen respirators. Got that?”
“Have got, Skipper. Hendriks can load his popguns, but he’s not to fire until you say so.”
“Correct. We’re on the way out now.”
Clarisse appeared with Carnaby and Brenda Coles in tow. They seemed to be sober enough, but rather resentful. And then, to Grimes’ surprise and great relief, Sonya came running up to them, her legs indecently long and graceful under the black sweater. She gasped, “That . . . lout!”
“Never mind him. Out of here. Fast.”
“But . . . My clothes . . .”
“Come on, damn you!” Grimes grabbed his wife by the arm, hurried her out of the village.
Behind them somebody was wordlessly shouting, the bellowing of a frustrated animal. Then something whirred between Grimes and Sonya, narrowly missing both of them. A quarrel, the commodore realized; a bolt from Hektor’s arbalest. There was a second missile—another very near miss—and a third.
“Down!” ordered Grimes, suiting the action to the word. He spoke into his wrist transceiver, “Commodore to Quest. Fire!”
From the fighting top of the distant ship came a flickering of pale flame and then, after what seemed a long interval, a series of sharp reports. The projectiles from Hendriks’ guns wailed overhead and, almost immediately, came the dull thuds as the gas shells burst precisely over the village. Grimes could visualize that heavy, soporific vapour settling, oozing downwards through the air, permeating every building, every nook and cranny.
Abruptly the wild singing and the shouting died and the drums fell silent.
But a lone piper—was it Maggie Macpherson? It had to be—persisted for long minutes, an eldritch lament that blended perfectly with the thin, cold drizzle that was beginning to fall.
But even she must, in the end, inhale, and then there was complete silence.
Chapter 19
WILLIAMS CAME OUT FROM THE SHIP in one of the work boats, a flying craft that was little more than a platform fitted with a powerful inertial drive unit. He was using his searchlight, and Grimes and the others stood up and waved as he drifted towards them. He brought the ungainly thing down to a soft landing a meter or so from where they were waiting, then asked, “What the hell’s been happening, Skipper?”
The commodore found it hard to reply. He was almost overcome by a lethargy far deeper than that resulting from overindulgence in alcohol. But, with a great effort, he forced himself to reply. He finished, “And things were . . . getting out of hand. Only one thing to do . . . Put everybody to sleep . . .”
“Sure you didn’t get any o’ the gas yourself, Skipper? You sound pretty dopey to me.”
“It was . . . the drug.”
“So you think you were all drugged?”
“Think?” snapped Grimes testily. “I know we were drugged.” He remembered vividly the taste and the smell of that beerlike drink, its consistency. Lucky he hadn’t liked it, had downed only one mug of the muck. A concoction brewed from sacred mushrooms for special occasions? That assumption made sense.
“And what do we do now, Skipper?”
Grimes pulled himself together, gave orders. He and the others put on respirators, clambered aboard the workboat. Williams restarted the drive then cruised slowly, at low altitude, towards the village. The engine was horridly noisy in the quiet night, but nobody would hear it; the effects of the Morpheus D would take at least six hours to wear off. The fires were still burning in the village square but they were now little more than mounds of red embers, and in the glare of the searchlight no more than gray cinders. Grimes looked down and ahead anxiously; he was suddenly afraid that some of the anaesthetized revellers might have fallen into the beds of red-hot coals. But nobody had done so. The tangles of limbs and bodies were all well clear of danger.
Williams landed the
raft in a narrow lane just away from the square. Grimes, followed by the rest of the party, jumped down to the ground. The drizzle had misted his goggles and he doubted if he would be able to tell, even with the aid of the powerful hand torch that Williams had given him, who were members of his own crew and who were natives. Nudity makes for anonymity.
The first body he came to was that of Maggie Macpherson. There was no mistaking her for anybody else. She still had the bagpipes, clasping the instrument to her breasts. It looked as though she were giving suck to some bloated little arthropoidal monster. Her uniform cap was, somehow, still on her unruly red curls. She still had her boots on. Grimes laughed—not an easy action to perform while wearing a respirator, but possible. This could be simple after all, so long as the others had shown the same respect for uniform regulations as had the Scottish girl.
And so it turned out to be, although some of the tangles took some sorting out. Faraway Quest’s crew hadn’t died with their boots on—but they had been doing all sorts of other things when the anesthetic gas hit them. At one stage Williams muttered, “I should have brought a camera . . . What a marvelous picture this would make! Twelve people in six poses . . .”
“Pipe down and get on with the bloody job!” growled Grimes. “It’s quite bad enough without your making a joke of it!”
But it was Williams who knew how many bodies to look for and who kept a tally of those piled aboard the raft. It was Williams who said that Titanov was still missing, and who overrode his superior’s suggestion that the marine be left to stew in his own juice. The big man was found at last, in one of the houses. An untidy heap of six naked girls had to be lifted off him before his body could be carried outside.
Another tally was made—of the weapons that had been recovered. Officers’ side-arms and the marines’ stunclubs were loaded aboard the workboat, together with a pile of discarded clothing. From this latter Sonya recovered her own uniform, got into it hastily.
Then, “We have to find the king,” said Grimes.
“Why?” asked Williams.
“Because the bastard shot at us. I’m taking back his crossbow.”
Carrying torches, the two men walked slowly through the sleeping village. For what seemed a long time they searched in vain. At last their lights showed two giant, huddled bodies, were reflected from gleaming steel.
One of the unmoving men was Hektor, and he was dead, his skull messily crushed. The other was Herak, with the crossbow, which he had used as a club, still in his hands.
The king was dead—and who would be the next king?
That, Grimes told himself, was no concern of his.
Chapter 20
IT WAS A LONG NIGHT, and a wearing one, and Grimes was still feeling muzzy from the effects of the mushroom beer. So was Sonya, and so were Carnaby and Brenda Coles, although the navigator and the assistant biochemist had done little more than to take experimental sips of the stuff. Williams, of course, was exhibiting the infuriating, cheerful competency of the virtuously sober—but if it had not been for his efforts the sleeping crew members would never have been tucked away in their own quarters before daylight. Even so, the flush of dawn was bright in the east when the job was finally over.
Grimes turned in all standing, taking off only his jacket and his boots. He did not sleep in his bedroom—relations between him and Sonya were, naturally, rather strained, although it seemed doubtful if the late king had actually done anything—but on the settee in his day cabin. As his head touched the cushion he was using as a pillow he went out like a light.
When he woke up it was as though somebody had switched that figurative light back on. He was suddenly aware that someone was standing over him. He opened his eyes, realized that he was looking almost directly into the muzzle of a large-caliber projectile pistol. At this close range it was like the business end of a forty-millimeter cannon.
Behind the gun, he realized eventually, was Dalzell, who was grinning wolfishly.
“Major!” demanded Grimes. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Not major, Commodore,” replied the marine. “Not any longer. You will address me as Your Majesty.”
He must have had a skinful, thought Grimes. He’s still hallucinating like a bastard . . . I shall have to be tactful . . . He said, “Would you mind putting that thing down?”
“Your Majesty,” prompted Dalzell. “Yes, I would mind. And get this into your stupid skull—from now on I give the orders.”
This was too much. “Have you gone mad?” roared Grimes.
“No, Commodore. Just a sudden rush of sanity to the head. That mushroom beer or whatever it was last night cleared my brain. I am seeing things in their proper perspective. What the hell’s the use of beetling all around the Galaxy, not even knowing what we’re looking for, when there’s a kingdom—the nucleus of an empire—right here and now, just for the picking up?”
“I still say that you’re mad.”
“Careful, Commodore. Or Mr. ex-Commodore. I hold the ship.”
“You? You’re not a spaceman.”
“I have the military power. And Hendriks is with me—he’s a master astronaut, for what that’s worth, as well as being the gunnery officer. And Sparks. And the engineers. And the Quack, and all the tabbies . . .” He laughed at the alarm that must have shown on Grimes’ face. “No need to get too worried—yet. We haven’t killed any of your pets. We might still find a use for them.”
“My . . . pets?”
“The two tame telepaths. Williams. Carnaby. Their popsies.”
“Their . . . popsies?”
“Really, Commodore. You surprise me. Your own ship—although not any longer!—and you don’t know all that’s going on aboard her. Ruth Macoboy and Brenda Coles, that’s who. Williams and Carnaby are loyal to you—the Odd Gods of the Galaxy alone know why!—and the two wenches are loyal to their boyfriends. It’s as simple as that.”
Grimes watched the pistol hopefully, but with all the time that Dalzell was talking, it did not waver so much as a fraction of a degree.
Then—“What’s simple?” asked Sonya coldly. She was standing in the doorway to the bedroom, dressed still in her black sweater and khaki trousers, holding Grimes’ Minetti. The deadly little automatic was pointing straight at the major.
Dalzell laughed. He remarked in a very reasonable voice, “If you pull your trigger, Mrs. Grimes—or, if you like, Commander Verrill—reflex action will cause me to pull mine. Not that it much matters as, in any case, your ever-loving husband will get his fair share of the burst intended for me. Furthermore . . .” He pursed his lips and whistled softly. Grimes did not have to turn his head to see that two Marines had entered his day cabin.
“So . . .” murmured Sonya regretfully.
“So drop your gun, Mrs. Grimes. Or Commander Verrill. Better make it Mrs. Grimes. A commander’s commission in the Terran Survey Service doesn’t pile on many Gs here and now, does it?”
“Better do as the man says,” muttered Grimes at last.
“As the man says? You forget yourself, Commodore. As the king says.”
“The major has promoted himself,” explained Grimes mildly.
Surprisingly Dalzell took this in good part. He grinned, then said, “There was a vacancy, and I applied for the job. I displayed my qualifications—noisy ones, and quite spectacular . . .” His face hardened, took on a vicious twist. “On your feet, Commodore! I’ve wasted too much time yapping to you. My men will escort you to the empty storeroom we’re using as a brig.”
“I shall need . . .” began Sonya.
“You need nothing. You’ll get food and water, and there’s a disposal chute for your personal wastes. Shake the lead out of your pants, the pair of you!”
Grimes sighed. A man and a woman, unarmed, against at least three armed men, all of whom were trained fighters. He almost wished that Sonya had used her pistol, disastrous as the results would have been. Now the weapon was on the deck, out of reach.
“All right,�
� he said, rolling off the settee. “All right.”
Grimes and Sonya made their slow way down through the ship. Save for their escort they saw nobody. Were the crew members avoiding him of their own volition or had they been ordered so to do by Dalzell? Not that it mattered. The major, judging from his attitude, was very firmly in the saddle.
They came at last to the storeroom, one of those on the farm deck. It was ideal for its purpose—that of a jail cell—as it was more of a utility compartment than a storeroom proper, and had been used as a handling room for meat from the tissue-culture vats. There were benches, and washing facilities. Even with six people in it there was no overcrowding. The other four were Williams, Carnaby, Ruth Macoboy and Brenda Cole. The commander’s rugged face was badly battered. He, at least, had put up a fight. He growled sardonically as the commodore and Sonya were thrust into the prison, “Welcome aboard, Skipper. This is Liberty Hall; you can spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard!”
Grimes ignored this. “Where are Ken and Clarisse?” he demanded.
“Stashed away somewhere else, I reckon. They musta been pounced on first, so that they couldn’t warn us. Not that they could have warned us about Dalzell an’ his bloody pongoes, thanks to that fancy antitelepathic conditioning of theirs.”
“But the others. The real crew members. Ken must have had some warning, surely. A mutiny doesn’t just happen, out of thin air.”
“Gotta be a first time for anything, Skipper—an’ this it. Don’t forget that all of you were as high as kites on that fancy mushroom juice. Could be, too, that the muck damped out Ken’s talents rather than enhancing ‘em. But Ken an’ Clarisse ain’t here, that’s for certain. Which is a bloody pity. If they were, we might cook somethin’ up between us . . .”
And they can hear us, thought Grimes, but we can’t hear them. I could suggest that they teleport themselves here, but unless Clarisse has sketching materials to hand—which she won’t have; Dalzell’s no fool—there’s no way at all that it can be done . . . There was a faint dawning of hope. But isn’t there? Grimes had read of prisoners using their body wastes, their blood even, to write or draw or paint.
Gateway to Never (John Grimes) Page 36
