The Way Back

by A Bertram Chandler

  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 everloving 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 G's 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 anti-telepathic 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.

  A vivid picture formed itself in his mind. Wherever they were, the two telepaths were not very far away and, with a pooling of powers and a great expenditure of psionic effort, transmission of a sort would be possible to the brains of non-telepaths. Had they been in the same cell as Grimes it would have been relatively easy, of course—but not, in those circumstances, necessary.

  Grimes, then, saw quite clearly the interior of a storeroom not unlike the one in which he was imprisoned. There were two benches, on each of which was a mattress. On one of the benches Mayhew was stretched supine, on the other one was Clarisse. Each of them was secured firmly to his bed by manacles at wrists and ankles.

  And Clarisse could function as a teleporteuse only when she was able to paint the people to be moved or the locations to which they were to be shifted.

  Chapter 21

  They must have been in their prison for all of three weeks.

  They had no means of telling time; Dalzell had seen to it that they were stripped of any and all personal possessions of use or value, including their wristwatches. Meals came at irregular intervals. There was enough to sustain life, but with very little surplus. And always the food consisted of sandwiches so that there were never any table
utensils that might be used as tools or weapons—not that knives or forks would have been any good against the machine pistols carried by the guards.

  Time dragged.

  Grimes grew a beard. He could not see it—there were, of course, no mirrors—but had to take Sonya's word for it that it was not becoming. Williams grew a beard, and it suited him. Carnaby was one of those who had undergone permanent depilation.

  Sonya, although she tried very hard to maintain appearances, lost her elegance. Brenda Coles, never very elegant to start with, lost weight. Ruth Macoboy, skinny rather than slim at all times, began, with her long, unkempt black hair to look like a fairy-tale witch. The tempers of the women soured as their appearance deteriorated.

  Especially trying was the lack of privacy. At first, jokes were made about it, but, as the days wore on it became no laughing matter.

  Meanwhile, what was happening?

  Insofar as the ship was concerned, some not-too-far-off-the-beam guesswork was possible. It seemed obvious that Davis, the Chief Engineer, was striking troubles with the overhaul of the inertial drive unit. This would have taken no time at all had there been shoreside workshop facilities available—but here, of course, such were nonexistent. Through decks and bulkheads, all day and every day, drifted the noise of spasmodic hammering, but never the irregular beat that would tell of a test running of the engines.

  And outside the ship?

  Now and again Mayhew and Clarisse would succeed in transmitting a telepathic picture of events to Grimes, a relay of a picture which they, themselves, had picked up from some member of a shore party. The commodore watched, with helpless horror, what seemed to be an execution in the main square of the village—three white-bearded old men against a wall, a firing squad of Dalzell's Marines. Laser rifles were used, set at medium beam to ensure a spectacular incineration. Grimes watched, too, as those same Marines dragged six girls out of a house, carried them away somewhere out of the sight of the original viewer. Again he was horrified—then realized with disgust that the young women were putting up only a token resistance.

  Dalzell figured, too, in these waking visions. Every time that the Major appeared he was wearing dress uniform, but with something that looked more like a crown than a helmet on his head. Some of the time he was supervising the building of what had to be a new palace—three-storied and with a sort of steeple to give it additional height, towering high over all the other houses in the village, including that which had been occupied by Hektor. At other times he was drilling his army—the Marines and also a sizeable force of young native men. These latter now had spears tipped with metal instead of obsidian, and short swords that gleamed like steel. That persistent hammering, Grimes decided, was probably not entirely due to the engine overhaul. Some of the engineers must be working as armament artificers.

  Grimes was not the only one to pick up the psionic broadcasts made by Mayhew and Clarisse. Sonya shared them, as did Williams. Carnaby, Ruth Macoboy and Brenda Coles did not, but listened intently to what the others told them.

  "That bloody pongo!" swore Williams, "is having himself one hell of a good time!"

  "We most certainly are not," stated Sonya.

  "But what does he intend to do with us?" asked Carnaby, of nobody in particular. Then, to Grimes, "You've made a study of this sort of thing, sir. Piracy, mutiny and all the rest of it. In the old days, I mean. At sea."

  "I suppose I have, James," admitted the commodore.

  "What usually happened to the victims of mutiny or piracy?" The young man looked as though he regretted having asked the question, but persisted with it. "What usually happened?"

  Grimes had already given the matter considerable thought. He said, "It varied. It all depended on how bad a bastard the pirate captain or the leader of the mutineers was, and on how bad his men were. Some victims were made to walk the plank—which was not as funny as it sounds. It must have been a rather nasty method of execution. Some were marooned, on desert islands. Some—like Bligh of the Bounty—were cast adrift in open boats . . ."

  "They had a chance . . ." muttered Carnaby.

  "After this prison," remarked Sonya, "a desert island would seem like paradise."

  "Depending, of course," Grimes told her, "on its location and on its natural resources. Here, we are sheltered from the weather and are getting adequate food."

  "A defeatist attitude, John."

  "Mphm. Perhaps. Don't forget that many a person has wished himself out of the frying pan and found himself in the fire."

  "But Dalzell must have some intentions as far as we're concerned," persisted Sonya.

  "But are they good ones?" asked Williams.

  Probably not, thought Grimes. Almost certainly not. A thought insinuated itself into his mind—from outside was it? put there by Mayhew or Clarisse? A public trial, followed by a public execution . . . Would Dalzell dare? Perhaps the major would consider a trial too risky, but the execution would make it plain to all hands that he now was the leader.

  "And were you thinking what I was thinking?" asked Sonya. "Yes."

  "Me too," growled Williams.

  "Did . . . did you receive something?" asked Brenda Coles.

  "I'm not sure," Grimes told her. "I think we did." He tried to grin. "I think that Dalzell will turn out to be one of the really bad bastards."

  "An' that brings me," put in Williams, "to something that I've been wanting to say for a long time. He, the major, has to do something about the Skipper and Sonya and meself. He can't afford to have us running around loose. But there's no reason at all why young James an' Brenda an' Ruth should be for the high jump. Next time that the pongoes bring us our tucker we can ask 'em to tell Dalzell that the three of you are willing to be faithful and loyal servants of his Majesty. You all have skills that he'll be needing."

  "No," said Carnaby.

  "No," said the two girls.

  "If you have any sense," Grimes told them, "you'll say 'yes.' "

  "No!" they told him. And they refused to be persuaded.

  * * *

  It was some hours later when the door to the storeroom opened.

  And about time, thought Grimes irritably. The next meal wasn't due; it was considerably overdue. Even those unappetizing sandwiches would be welcome.

  But no packets of sandwiches were tossed in through the barely opened door, which remained open. Grimes got to his feet, feeling the beginnings of hope. Release? Then his brief elation faded. This could only be a squad of Marines to lead him and the others to their execution.

  "All right," he said. "Let's get it over with."

  A voice replied—a woman's voice, unfamiliar yet oddly familiar. It said, "Quickly, John. You must seize the ship."

  "Who the hell . . . ?" demanded Grimes. He was at the doorway in two swift steps. He was staring at a stranger, a naked, fair-haired girl, obviously one of the women from the village. She stared at him. It was as though, he realized suddenly, somebody else were looking at him from behind her eyes.

  "There is no time to lose, John. Dalzell and most of the crew are at a feast in the village. There is only a skeleton watch on board."

  "Who . . . Who are you?"

  The woman laughed, then replied, "Believe it or not, I'm Ken. Elena, here, is susceptible to telepathic control. She was kept on board to keep the watchkeepers company. They've been having their own party. When they passed out she collected the keys."

  It made sense—or as much sense as psionic technology ever made. But it was a pity, thought Grimes, that Mayhew hadn't used this borrowed body to pick up a few hand weapons on the way down. Even so, he and the loyalists would have the advantage of surprise. Once in the control room he would have the ship's armament at his disposal; within minutes he would plaster the village with Morpheus D.

  "Now you're cooking with gas!" remarked the woman approvingly in a voice that sounded more and more like Mayhew's.

  "What about you and Clarisse?" asked Grimes.

  "Never mind about us. Elena w
ill release us while you're on the way to Control. But hurry!"

  "You heard?" demanded the Commodore, turning to his cellmates. "Then come on!"

  He brushed past the girl, ran out into the alleyway. He made his way to the axial shaft, pushed the button for the elevator. Indicator lights flashed; the cage had been only two decks below, at the Marines' messdeck. The door opened, the freed prisoners scrambled in, followed by the native woman.

  "Let me—let Elena—off at the boat-bay compartment," said Mayhew through her mouth. "We're in one of the storerooms there."

  "We'll wait for you there," said Grimes, pushing the right button.