Upon a Sea of Stars

by A Bertram Chandler

  Ahead, now, was the railway to Garardan and the Garardan Road. Beyond road and railway was the Blord River and, far to the southeast, I could see the crumbling stonework of the Porgidor Tower. Over road and railway, I reasoned, there would be thermals but over the river, which ran ice-cold from the high hills, there would be a downdraught. . . Yes, there were thermals all right. The Hallicheki were taking full advantage of them, going up like a balloon. Literally. What were they playing at? Why weren’t they gliding down the lift? And they were keeping well to starboard, to the south’ard of the track, putting on distance as they would have to come to port to pass to north and east of the tower.

  I looked astern. The judges’ airship was following, watching. If the Hallicheki tried to cut off a corner they’d be disqualified.

  I kept the Porgidor Tower fine on my starboard bow; whatever the Hallicheki were playing at, I would run the minimum distance. And then, as I was lifting on the thermals over the railway, I saw that there was some method in the opposition’s madness. There were more thermals over the power station on the west bank of the river and I had missed out on them.

  Swoop and soar, swoop and soar. Compress, decompress. Our muscles were aching with the stooped scrambles forward and aft in the cramped confines of the car. It must have been even worse for Mary than for me because of the absurdly bulky and heavy clothing that she was wearing. But we were holding our own, more than holding our own. That thermal-hunting had cost the Hallicheki their lead.

  Then there was the Porgidor Tower close on our starboard hand, with quite a crowd of spectators waving from the battered battlements. And we were on the last leg of the course, over boulder-strewn bushland, with the twin ribbons of the Saarkaar Road and Railway ahead and beyond them the river again, and beyond that the mooring masts and hangars of the airport.

  Swoop and soar, swoop and soar. . . .

  I swooped into the thermals rising from the road and the railway so that I could manage a steep, fast glide with no loss of altitude. I began to feel smugly self-congratulatory.

  But where were the Hallicheki?

  Not ahead any longer. All that they had gained by their use of thermals was altitude. They were neither ahead nor to either side, and certainly not below, where the only artifact visible was a little sidewheel paddle steamer chugging fussily up river.

  Then there was the anticipated downdraught that I countered with decompression.

  Suddenly there was a sharp pattering noise from directly above and I saw a shower of glittering particles driving down on each side of the car. Rain? Hail? But neither fall from a clear sky.

  Mary was quicker on the uptake than I was. “The Hallicheki,” she shouted. “They dumped their ballast on us!”

  Not only had they dumped ballast on us, they’d holed the gas cells. Some of the viciously pointed steel darts had gone through every surface, dropping to the deck of the car. If we’d been in the way of them they’d have gone through us too. Razor-sharp, tungsten tipped (as I discovered later). So this was what had happened to the Shaara racer. . . .

  “Ballast!” I yelled. “Dump ballast!”

  But we didn’t have any to dump. I thought briefly of the mooring lines with their metal pegs but the ropes were spliced to the pins and to the structure of the car. And I didn’t have a knife. (All right, all right, I should have had one but I’d forgotten it.) Then I remembered my first flight with Robiliyi and what he had told me when I’d asked him what to do when there was no ballast left to dump. I stripped off my shirt, dropped it over the side. It didn’t seem to make much difference. I sacrificed my shorts. I looked up. All the cells were punctured and three of them looked as though they were empty. But the planing surface above them must still be reasonably intact. I hoped. If only I could gain enough altitude I could glide home. Forgetting the company that I was in I took off my briefs, sent the scrap of fabric after the other garments.

  I heard Mary make a noise half way between a scream and a gasp.

  I looked at her. She looked at me. Her face was one huge blush.

  I felt my own ears burning in sympathy.

  I said, “We’re still dropping. We have to get upstairs. Fast.”

  She asked, “You mean . . . ?”

  I said, “Yes.”

  She asked, her voice little more than a whisper, “Must I?”

  I said that she must.

  But you could have knocked me over with a feather when her hand went to the throat of her coveralls, when her finger ran down the sealseam. She stepped out of the garment, kicked it overside. Her underwear was thick and revealed little; nonetheless I could see that that fantastic blush of hers suffused the skin of her neck and shoulders, even the narrow strip of belly that was visible. That will do, I was going to say, but she gave me no time to say it. Her expression had me baffled. Her halter came off and was jettisoned, then her remaining garment.

  I’ll be frank. She wouldn’t have attracted a second glance on a nudist beach; her figure was good but not outstanding. But this was not a nudist beach. A naked woman in an incongruous situation is so much more naked than she would be in the right surroundings. She looked at me steadily, defiantly. Her blush had faded. Her skin was smoothly creamy rather than white. I felt myself becoming interested.

  She asked, “Do you like it?” I thought at first that she meant the strip show that she had put on for me. She went on, “I do! I’ve often thought about it but I had no idea what it would really be like! The feel of the sun and the air on my skin . . . “

  I wanted to go on looking at her. I wanted to do more than that—but there’s a time and a place for everything and this was neither. It could have been quite a good place in other circumstances but not with a race to be flown to a finish.

  I tore my eyes away from her naked body—I heard a ripping noise, but it was only one of the rents in the envelope enlarging itself—and looked around and up and down to see what was happening. Mary’s supreme sacrifice was bringing results. We were lifting—sluggishly, but lifting. And so, just ahead of us, were the Hallicheki. The gas cells of their balloon were flabby and wrinkled; they must have squandered buoyancy recklessly in their attacks on the Shaara and ourselves. And then I saw one of the great, ugly brutes clambering out of the car. They were abandoning ship, I thought. They were dropping out of the race. Then I realized what they were doing. The one who had gone outboard was gripping the forward rail of the car with her feet, was beating her wings powerfully, towing the balloon. Legal or illegal? I didn’t know. That would be for the judges to decide, just as they would have to make a decision on the use of potentially lethal ballast. But as no machinery was being used, the Hallicheki might be declared the winners of the race.

  What else did we have to dump? We would have to gain altitude, and fast, for the last swoop in. The hand winch? It was of no further use to us. It was held down to the deck of the car only by wing nuts, and they loosened fairly easily. We unscrewed them, threw them out. We were rising a little faster. Then there were the shackles securing the downhaul to the compression webbing. Overboard they went. The winch itself I decided to keep as a last reserve of disposable ballast.

  High enough?

  I thought so.

  I valved gas—for the first and only time during our flight—and Mary and I shifted our weight forward. We swooped, overtaking the crawling, under tow, Hallicheki balloon. We were making headway all right but losing too much altitude. The winch would have to go.

  It was insinuated that my jettisoning it when we were directly above the Hallicheki was an act of spite. I said in my report that it was accidental, that the Hallicheki just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or the right time. I’ll not deny that we cheered when we saw the hunk of machinery hit that great, flabby mattress almost dead center. It tore through it, rupturing at least four of the gas cells. The envelope crumpled, fell in about itself. The two hen officers struggled to keep the crippled racer in the air, ripping the balloon fabric to shreds with the
ir clawed feet as their wings flapped frenziedly. Meanwhile we were going up like a rocket.

  The Hallicheki gave up the attempt to keep their craft airborne. They let it flutter earthwards, trailing streamers of ragged cloth. They started to come after us, climbing powerfully. I could sense somehow that they were in a vile temper. I imagined those sharp claws and beaks ripping into the fabric of our balloon and didn’t feel at all happy. We didn’t have wings of our own. We didn’t even have parachutes.

  It was time for the final swoop—if only those blasted birds let us make it. There was no need to valve any more gas; the rents in the fabric of the gas cells had enlarged themselves. We shifted our weight forward. Astern and overhead I heard the throbbing of engines; it was the judges’ airship escorting us to the finish line. The Hallicheki wouldn’t dare to try anything now. I hoped. My hope was realized. They squawked loudly and viciously, sheared off.

  Overhead, as I’ve said, there was the throbbing of airship engines—and, fainter, the irregular beat of an inertial drive unit. Adder’s atmosphere flier, I thought at first, standing by in case of accidents. But it didn’t sound quite right, somehow. Too deep a note. But I’d too much on my plate to be able to devote any thought to matters of no immediate importance.

  We swept into the airport, steering for the red flag on the apron that marked the finish. We were more of a hang glider now than a balloon but I knew somehow that we’d make it. The underside of the car brushed the branches of a tree—to have made a detour would have been out of the question—and a large section of decking was torn away. That gave us just the little extra buoyancy that we needed. We cleared the spiky hedge that marked the airport boundary. We actually hit the flagpole before we hit the ground, knocking it over. Before the tattered, deflated envelope collapsed over us completely we heard the cries of applause, the thunder of flat hands on thighs.

  It was quite a job getting out from under that smothering fabric. During the struggle we came into contact, very close contact. At least once I almost . . . Well, I didn’t. I’m not boasting about it, my alleged self-control, I mean. There comes a time in life when you feel more remorse for the uncommitted sins—if sins they are—than for the committed ones.

  At last we crawled out of the wreckage. The first thing we noticed was that the applause had ceased. My first thought was that the natives were shocked by our nudity and then, as I looked around, saw that they were all staring upwards. The clangor of the strange inertial drive was sounding louder and louder.

  We looked up too. There was a pinnace—a big pinnace, such as are carried by major warships—coming down. It displayed Survey Service markings. I could read the name, in large letters, ARIES II. Aries’ number-two pinnace . . . Aries—a Constellation Class cruiser—I knew quite well. I’d once served in her as a junior watch-keeper. She must still be in orbit, I thought. This would be the preliminary landing party.

  The pinnace grounded not far from where Mary and I were standing. Or where I was standing; Mary was on her hands and knees desperately trying to tear off a strip of fabric from the ruined envelope to cover herself. The outer airlock door opened. A group of officers in full dress blues disembarked. Captain Daintree was in the lead. I knew him. He was a strict disciplinarian, a martinet. He was one of the reasons why I had not been sorry to leave Aries.

  He glared at us. He recognized me in spite of my non-regulation attire. He stood there, stiff as a ramrod, his right hand on the pommel of his dress sword. I still think that he’d have loved to use that weapon on me. His face registered shock, disbelief, horror, you name it.

  He spoke at last, his voice low but carrying easily over the distance between us.

  “Mr. Grimes, correct me if I am wrong, but your instructions, I believe, were merely to maintain a Terran presence on this planet until such time as an officer of higher rank could take over.” I admitted that this was so.

  “You were not, I am certain, authorised to start a nudist club. Or is this, perhaps, some sort of love-in?”

  “But, sir,” I blurted, “I won the race!” Even he could not take that triumph from me. “I won the race!”

  “And did you win the prize, Commodore?” asked Kitty Kelly.

  “Oh, yes. A very nice trophy. A model, in solid gold, of a racing balloon, suitably inscribed. I have it still, at home in Port Forlorn.”

  “Not that prize. It’s the body beautiful I mean. The inhibition-and-clothing-shedding Miss Marsden.”

  “Yes,” said Grimes. “She shed her inhibitions all right. But I muffed it. I should have struck while the iron was hot, before she had time to decide that it was really Beadle—of all people!—whom she fancied. He reaped what I’d sown—all the way back to Lindisfarne Base!

  “When you get to my age you’ll realise that there’s no justice in the Universe.”

  “Isn’t there?” she asked, rather too sweetly.

  Grimes Among the Gourmets

  COMMODORE GRIMES, although he hated to admit it even to himself, was coming to look forward to the visits paid by Kitty Kelly to his ship. Faraway Quest was immobilized at Port Fortinbras, on Elsinore, and would remain so until such time as her engineers were able to effect repairs to the old vessel’s inertial drive. Originally an Epsilon Class star tramp, built for the Interstellar Transport Commission, she had been obsolescent when she entered the service of the Rim Worlds Confederacy. Her main propulsive machinery was hopelessly out of date and engineroom spares were not easily procurable. New eccentrics—but conforming to a long outmoded design—were being fabricated in Rim Runners’ workshops in Port Forlorn, on Lorn. Nobody was busting a gut on the job. Meanwhile the venerable Quest, her future employment a matter of no great urgency, stayed put.

  Shortly after the Rim Worlds survey ship’s arrival at Port Fortinbras, Grimes had been interviewed by Kitty Kelly of Station Yorick. He had been inveigled into spinning her a yarn about one of his adventures during his younger days in the Federation Survey Service, which she had recorded. It had been broadcast on her Kitty’s Korner tri-vi programme and Station Yorick’s viewers had lapped it up. She had been told to wheedle more tall stories out of the crusty old spacedog. Grimes had not been at all displeased to learn that most of his crew now watched, and enjoyed, Kitty’s Korner.

  This day she had told him that she would, if it suited his convenience, be calling aboard at a later time than usual. He suggested that she take dinner with him before the recording session. She was pleased to accept the invitation.

  Grimes’s paymaster—who was also the ship’s catering officer—was Miss Keiko Otoguro. Learning that the commodore would be dining with his guest in his day cabin she asked him if she could serve one of the traditional meals of her ancestral people. She told him that she had been for a ramble along the seashore and had collected various seaweeds that would be suitable for the menu that she had in mind. Grimes assented happily. He had always loved exotic foods. And, he thought and hoped, a sumptuous repast laid on especially for the beautiful, blue-eyed, black-haired Kitty Kelly might soften her attitude towards him. (He had already tried the “candy is dandy but liquor is quicker” approach but it hadn’t worked.)

  So Kitty Kelly was sitting in an easy chair in the commodore’s day cabin, displaying her excellent legs. Grimes, seated facing her, was admiring the scenery. Both were sipping large pink gins.

  She said, “I enjoy a meal aboard a ship now and again, even though autochefs tend to make everything taste the same.”

  “Not necessarily,” he told her. “A lot depends upon how much imagination is employed in the programming and upon what spices are available. But the dinner that we shall be enjoying is not from the autochef. My paymaster prepared it with her own fair hands . . .”

  There was a light tap at the door. Miss Otoguro entered the cabin, carrying a lacquered tray with bottles, glasses and tiny porcelain cups. She was followed by two stewardesses with larger trays upon which the food had been set out. There was just enough room on the big coffee table for t
he meal and the drinks.

  She uncapped a bottle of cold beer, poured into two glasses. Then, from a gracefully shaped porcelain bottle, she filled two of the little cups.

  She said formally, “Dinner is served, Commodore-san.”

  He replied with equal formality, “Thank you, Paymaster-san,” then added, “there’s no need for you to play Mama-san, Keiko. We can help ourselves.”

  She smiled but there was a hint of disappointment in her voice as she said, “As you please, Commodore.”

  When she and the girls had left Grimes said, “She has very old-fashioned ideas about the proper place of women in the universe. But she’s not a Rimworlder by birth. She was brought up on Mikasa . . .”

  Kitty was looking at the meal laid out on her tray.

  “But this is beautiful. . .” she whispered. “Like flowers . . . It looks too good, almost, to eat. . .”

  “Keiko’s specialty,” he told her. “Only for very honored guests.”

  He raised his saki cup in a silent toast. She raised hers, sipped. She made a grimace.

  “But this is warm . . .”

  “That’s the way it should be served.”

  “Oh. I think I’ll stick to beer. And didn’t your Miss Keiko forget knives and forks?”

  Grimes picked up his ivory chopsticks, used them to mix mustard with the soy sauce in a little bowl. He then picked up what looked like a pink and white and green blossom with the implements, dipped it in the sauce, brought it to his mouth. He chewed and swallowed appreciatively.