They hung there in the water, silent for awhile. Grimes found that it was better for his peace of mind to concentrate his regard upon her face. She said at last, "Shouldn't you be looking after your men?"
"Frankly, Your Highness, they can manage better without me. Chief Petty Officer Anderson and his team are experts. I am not."
"You're not very expert in anything, Mr. Grimes, are you?" A grin rather than a smile robbed her words of maliciousness.
"I'm a fairish navigator and a better than average gunnery officer."
"I'll have to take your word for that. Well, Mr. Grimes, since the work seems to be going along very well without you, will you accompany me in a leisurely swim?"
"Cor stiffen the bleedin' crows, Chiefie," remarked an almost inaudible voice, "officers don't half have it good!"
"Watch your welding, Willoughby," came Anderson's reprimand. "That's all that you're good for."
There was a gusty sigh, and then, "Well, I suppose we can't all be fairish navigators and better than average gunnery officers . . ."
Grimes wished that he were wearing only a breathing mask and not a full helmet. The cool touch of water would have soothed his burning face. He heard the girl's light, tinkling laughter. But he knew that Anderson would deal with matters back at the wreck. And he knew, too, that the petty officer would never report to higher authority that Grimes had wandered away from the work in progress. What was it that he, Anderson, had said once? "You'll be a captain, and higher, while I'm still only a C. P. O. Why should I make enemies?" Then, when asked why he, himself, did not put in for a commission, he had replied, "I like things the way they are. I enjoy reasonable standards of comfort and authority without responsibility. A junior officer has responsibility without authority."
The Princess Marlene was swimming away now, slowly. She paused, made a beckoning gesture. Should he follow? Yes. To hell with it, he would. He said, "Chief Petty Officer Anderson."
"Sir?"
"One of the . . . er . . . local ladies has offered to take me on an inspection of the lake bottom. It could be useful. Let me know when you want me."
"Very good, sir."
As Grimes followed the girl it was not the lake bottom that he was inspecting.
* * *
He caught up with her. One of the silvery miniature torpedoes dashed toward him threateningly, then suddenly (in response to a telepathic command?) sheered away. He said, "You have vicious pets, Your Highness."
"Not vicious, Mr. Grimes. Just faithful."
"That's an odd word to use about machines."
"These, like our watchbirds, are more than mere machines. They have organic brains. These pilot fish of mine, for example, are essentially the small but highly intelligent cetaceans of Algol III with mechanical bodies." She must have read his expression. "Come, come, Lieutenant. There's no need to look so shocked. This is no worse than the dog's brains used by your Psionic Radio Officers as amplifiers. Not so bad, in fact. Our watchbirds and watchdogs and pilot fish have freedom to move about in bodies which, in fact, are rather superior to their original ones."
"It's . . . it's not the same."
She laughed scornfully. "That's what I've been telling you, my good man. One of your poodle's brains in aspic would sell its soul for the motility enjoyed by our guardians."
"Is that what you call them?"
"That is the general term. Yes."
"And their prime function is to protect their owners?"
"Their only function. Yes."
"So if I . . . tried to attack you?"
"It would be the last thing you ever did, Mr. Grimes."
He laughed grimly. "I don't think I'll try it out, Your Highness."
"You'd better not. But would you like a demonstration?"
"Not on me."
She stopped, holding herself stationary in the water with gentle movements of her long, graceful limbs. She pointed with the hand holding the gun. "Look! Do you see the rock ogre?"
"The what? I see something that looks like a slime-covered rock."
"That's it. Perhaps the only really dangerous denizen of these waters. Native to Australis. Excellent eating, properly prepared. That's why we introduced it."
"It looks innocent enough."
"But it's not. Keep well back and watch closely."
She swam toward the thing. Then, with explosive suddenness, three triangular flaps sprang back on the top of the rough shell and, uncoiling with lightning rapidity, a thick stalk shot out straight at the girl, a glistening limb tipped with a complexity of writhing tentacles and gnashing mandibles. Grimes cried out in horror and pulled his useless knife, but he was not fast enough, could never have been fast enough.
The pilot fish were there before him, flashing past him at a speed that, even under the water, produced a distinct whine. One of them dived into the orifice from which the stalk had been extruded, the other attacked the ogre's head. It was over almost as soon as it had been begun. Mere flesh and blood, from whatever world, could not withstand the concerted onslaught of the little, armoured monsters. Only seconds had elapsed, and the girl was hanging there in the water, laughing, while the pilot fish frisked around her like dogs demanding an approbatory pat. An unpleasant, brownish mist was seeping up from the base of the stalk and from the debris of torn and severed tentacles, still feebly twitching, and broken mandibles at the head of it.
Grimes was sickened. It was not by the death of a dangerous (and, he had been told) edible creature, life owes its continuance to the destruction of life. It was by the genuine pleasure and amusement in the girl's high, clear laughter. But blood sports, he told himself dourly, have always been the favorite recreation of the so-called aristocracy.
He said, "I must be getting back to work. Your Highness."
He started off in what he thought was the right direction, but the water was heavily befogged by the ichor from the dying rock ogre. He did not see the other rock, the shell, rather, until he was almost on top of it. He screamed and made a frantic effort to avoid the terrifying head that shot out at him. He felt a sharp pain in his side as something grazed his body, heard a dull thunk followed by another. The rock ogre seemed to go mad, writhing violently. The thick stalk caught Grimes a flailing blow in the belly, knocking him well clear. He caught a glimpse, vivid, unforgettable, of Marlene, an underwater Artemis, with her gun raised for another shot.
And then the pilot fish swept in to finish the job.
Chapter 14
He sprawled on the muddy bottom, his hand pressed to the rent in his suit, the rent in his skin. He could feel the warmth of blood. He did not know how badly he was injured, but, at this moment, the imminence of suffocation was of far greater importance than loss of blood. He feared that the pipes from his liquid air tanks to his helmet had been buckled or severed and then, agonisingly, he was able to breathe again. It was the blow to the stomach that had knocked all the air out of his lungs.
She was hanging in the murky water looking at him, her stubby weapon pointing directly at him. A woman with a gun can be a frightening sight; a naked woman with a gun is always clothed in deadly menace.
Grimes whispered hoarsely, "Put that down!"
At first he thought that she had not heard him, then, slowly, she let her hand fall until the muzzle, from which protruded the lethal head of a new dart, was directed downward.
She muttered, "I'm sorry . . ."
Grimes tried to laugh. "What for? You saved my life."
"Yes." There was an odd note of astonishment in her voice. "Yes. I did, didn't I?" She made a swimming motion toward him. "Are you hurt?"
"I don't know how badly. That brute kicked like a mule. And one of your bolts grazed me. At least, I think it was only a graze."
"Mr. Grimes, sir," came Anderson's voice. "Mr. Grimes, what's been happening? Shall I send help?"
"Just a slight tussle with the local fauna, Chief. I got a little beaten up, but nothing serious. I'm on my back to the wreck now."
"I
f I were you, sir, I'd surface and get back into the boat. I'll send Jones up to you. He's qualified in First Aid."
"Better do as the man says," advised the Princess. "I'll see you to your boat. Can you move?"
Grimes worked his arms and legs experimentally. "Yes. Nothing seems to be broken."
He detached the weights from his belt, let his buoyancy carry him upward. The girl floated alongside him. He could not help looking at her. She was beautiful in her nudity, and the few black trappings that she wore accentuated the golden luminosity of her skin. She was beautiful, but he shuddered as he remembered how she had appeared in her moment of bloodthirsty triumph, and how she had stared at him over her aimed weapon.
The silver mirror shattered into a myriad of glittering shards, and then Grimes' head was above the surface. He could not see the boat at first, turned slowly and clumsily in the water until she came into view. She was a long way off. He was, he knew, in no danger of drowning but doubted if he could swim that far in his weakened condition. And he did not know how much blood he was losing, or how fast.
She said softly, "Relax, Mr. Grimes. Let me see . . ."
He felt her alongside him, was conscious of her gently probing fingers, was aware that she had widened and lengthened the tear in his suit.
"Men are such babies," she remarked. "The skin's hardly broken."
He said stiffly, "I hope that your darts aren't poisoned."
"Of course not. And now, just follow me."
He followed her, thinking that it was the first time in his life that he had followed a girl, a naked girl at that, without a sense of pulse quickening anticipation.
* * *
He sat there glumly in the boat, dabbing the graze just below the ribs on his right side with antiseptic-soaked cotton wool. The Princess Marlene had helped him to mount the short ladder and then had left him, swimming away toward the further shore, a graceful, golden shape around which sported the two silver pilot fish. His self-administered first aid was interrupted by the man Jones, stocky, competent, revoltingly cheerful, who, as soon as he had clambered inboard, removed his helmet and tanks and then performed a like service for Grimes.
"Now, let's have a look at that, sir. Something bite you? Only a scratch, though. All the same, you'd better have an antibiotic shot. We don't know what microorganisms are in the water, do we? And perhaps whatever it was that attacked you didn't brush his or her teeth this morning. Ha, ha!"
"Ha, ha," echoed Grimes.
"No need to take your suit off for the shot, sir. I'll just pump it in where the fabric's already been torn away." He went to the first aid box and produced a syrette. "Now, sir, just stretch a little . . . Fine. Didn't feel a thing, sir, did you?"
"No," admitted Grimes.
"Then if you're all right, sir, I'll get aft and start the compressor." He reached across the Lieutenant and picked up the microphone. "Jones here, Chiefie. I've seen to Mr. Grimes; he's all right. O. K. to start pumping the air into her?"
"O. K.," came Anderson's voice. "She's all sealed and I think she'll hold. But stand by to stop the compressor at once if I give the world."
"Will do, Chiefie."
Jones left the seat by Grimes' side, made his way toward the stern. After a second or so came the steady throb of the machine; Grimes, looking overside, saw one of the heavy plastic hoses jerking rhythmically, as though alive. It reminded him unpleasantly of a rock ogre's trunk.
"She's holding," announced the Chief Petty Officer. Then, "Mr. Grimes, can I have a word with you, sir?"
"Yes, Chief?" replied Grimes into the microphone.
"She's holding all right. And, as you said, those holes aft are just made to order for blowing the water out of . . . I think she's starting to lift . . . Yes. May I suggest, sir, that you and Jones take in the hose as she comes up, in case she topples . . . Oh, yes, and tell Jones to stop the air pump. Now."
The compressor stopped. Grimes joined the rating where the hoses ran overside, helped him to bring the one that had been used inboard. It was heavy work, and soon both men were sweating uncomfortably under their skintight suits. Then Jones shouted, "There she blows!"
Yes, thought Grimes, she did look something like a whale as she broke surface, although she wasn't blowing. And then, around her, bobbed up the heads of Anderson and his men in their spherical helmets. The Lieutenant saw the petty officer's mouth moving; it seemed odd that his voice should be coming from the speaker in the boat. "Jones! Throw us a line, will you?"
Jones picked up a coil of light nylon cord, with a padded weight spliced to the end, heaved it expertly— and even more expertly Anderson raised a hand to catch it. What followed was a pleasure to watch, was seamanship rather than spacemanship. A heavier line was passed, made fast to a ringbolt that had been welded to the dynosoar's nose, the other end of it taken by Jones to the towing bitts that had been installed at the boat's stern. And then, one by one, the Chief Petty Officer last of all, the salvage crew clambered back on board, stripping off their helmets and flippers, hauling to the surface their tools and other equipment. The competent Anderson insisted on checking every item before he was satisfied. Not until then did he lower his big frame into the seat beside Grimes.
"If I were you, sir, I'd tow her in and beach her by the spaceport."
"I'll do just that, Chief."
"Feel up to handling the boat yourself, sir?"
"Of course. It was only a scratch I got, and a few bruises."
"Right you are, then, Mr. Grimes."
Grimes started up the inertial drive, lifted the boat about a foot clear of the water. He turned her, slowly and carefully, avoiding the imposition of any sudden strain on the towline. He headed for the spaceport beacon inshore from the beach. He realized that he was scanning the water for any sign of the Princess Marlene. But either she had left the lake and gone home—wherever home was—or was still disporting herself in its depths. But she could look after herself, he thought grimly. She could look after herself very well indeed, she and her murderous pilot fish.
He heard Anderson mutter something uncomplimentary and concentrated on his steering; the boat, with that sluggish weight pulling her stern down, was behaving rather oddly. But he got the hang of it and beached the re-entry vehicle without incident.
* * *
He sat with Anderson in the boat while the men busied themselves about the stranded dynosoar.
"If I'd been you, sir," said the Chief Petty Officer, "do you know what I'd have done?"
About what? wondered Grimes. About the salvage? About the rock ogres? About Her Highness the Princess Marlene von Stolzberg?"
"What would you have done?" he snapped.
"I'd have had the engineers waterproof an I. D. unit, complete with power cells, taken it down to the dynosoar, started it up—and Bob's your uncle!"
"He may be yours, Chief. But he's obviously not mine."
"But the way it was was all right, Mr. Grimes. It gave my boys some very useful training."
"Join the Interstellar Survey Service and see the bottom of the sea."
"I must remember that, sir. And that's the way that I wish it always was. But . . . Do you mind if I talk to you man to man, for a little?"
"Do just that."
"I know Captain Daintree. Well. He was an Ensign when I was a rating fourth class, before I started specializing. We've sailed together many a time."
"Go on."
"I won't talk. And the men won't talk. If they did, they'd know that all the Odd Gods of the Galaxy wouldn't be able to save 'em. From me. You officers think that you have power, but"—he slowly opened and then clenched a huge hand—"this is where the real power lies, in any Navy."
"Go on."
"Your report, sir. May I suggest that you tore your suit on a piece of jagged wreckage?"
"But why, Chief?"
"You were supposed to be in charge of the job, Mr. Grimes. The Captain won't like it if he hears that you went off with a girl." Anderson blushed incongruously. "
A naked girl, at that."
"You've got a dirty mind, Chief."
"I haven't," said Anderson virtuously. "But the Old Man, I beg your pardon, sir, the Captain, and some of the other officers mightn't be so broadminded as me . . ."
Grimes chuckled.
"It's not funny, sir."
"Perhaps not. But your double entendre was."
To Prime the Pump Page 7
