Mayhew, still unconscious in his chair, twitched. He looked as though he were having a bad dream.
"Is she all right?" demanded Grimes of Metzenther.
"Yes, Commodore," answered the telepath. "Yes." He looked as though he had been about to say more but had decided against it.
"Can't you tell her to get the rest of us shifted across?"
"I . . . I will try. But you must realize that teleportation is a strain upon the operator."
"Damn it all, this is urgent."
"I know, Commodore. But . . . she will not be hurried."
"Druthen, von Donderberg. . . . Do they know that Flandry is aboard the ship?"
"No. And with von Donderberg actually in charge everything—including the prisoners' meals—is very much to timetable. There is little chance that Clarisse and Sir Dominic will be disturbed."
Disturbed? thought Grimes. An odd choice of words. . . .
"You must be patient, Commodore," said Metzenther.
Grimes was never to know if it was his own imagination, or if the telepath had deliberately planted the picture in his mind. But he knew what was happening, what had happened. He saw Clarisse, her clothing cast aside the better to emulate her savage forebears, working at the sketch she was making on a signals pad. She saw the picture growing out of her swift, sure stylus strokes, the depiction of Sir Dominic. What subconscious desires had been brought to the surface by the drug that Mayhew had taken, the effects of which he had shared with her?
And then. . . .
And then Flandry was with her.
Flandry, the unprincipled, suddenly confronted with a beautiful, naked, available and willing woman.
If Metzenther had not put thoughts, impressions into Grimes' brain he had read the Commodore's mind. He said, telepathically, "Mayhew will never know. We shall make sure of that."
"But . . . but how can she?" asked Grimes silently.
He got the impression of quiet laughter in reply. "How could you? How could Sonya? How could Maggie? Some of us—even you, Commodore—have regarded this straying into other continua as a sort of a holiday. A pubic holiday. . . . Forgive me. That just slipped out. And Clarisse has been under strain as much as any of us, more than most of us. What's more natural than that she should greet her deliverer in the age-old manner? Are you jealous, Commodore?"
"Frankly, yes," thought Grimes. He grinned ruefully.
"What the hell do you find so amusing?" asked Sonya sharply.
"Oh, er . . . I was just wondering where Sir Dominic had finished up. As we both of us know, this talent of Clarisse's is rather . . . unreliable."
"You have an odd sense of humor," she told him. She was beginning to look anxious.
There were no pictures in Grimes' mind now. He was rather thankful for that. But still he did not know how long it would be before Clarisse resumed her magical activities. He knocked his pipe out into one of the large ashtrays that were placed all around the control room. He refilled it. He lit it.
"Please, John," said Clarisse, "not in here. It's dreadfully stuffy."
She was, as he had visualized her, naked. She was standing at the desk, adding the last touches to the sketch she had made of Grimes. Flandry was seated on the bunk. He was fully clothed.
But. . . .
"Wipe the lipstick off your face, Sir Dominic," said Grimes coldly.
23
Clarisse ignored the exchange. She tore the sheet upon which she had portrayed Grimes off the pad, put it to one side. She started a fresh sketch. The Commodore peered over her smooth, bare shoulder as she worked. The likeness was unmistakable.
"Now!" she whispered intently.
Grimes was almost knocked off his feet as Irene materialized. She exclaimed cheerfully, "Oops, dearie! Fancy meeting you here!" And then, to Clarisse, "Hadn't you better put something on, ducks? All these men. . . ."
"I work better this way," she was told.
"Ssshh!" hissed Grimes. "This cabin . . . bugged. . . ."
"It was," remarked Flandry, in normal conversational tones. "And very amateurishly, if I may say so."
"So you did, at least, take precautions before. . . ." Grimes began.
"Before what?" asked Flandry, smiling reminiscently. "I always take precautions, Commodore."
Clarisse blushed spectacularly, over her entire body. But she went on sketching.
Sonya appeared, looking around her disapprovingly. What's been going on here? she asked silently. Then it was Trafford's turn, and finally Metzenther's. The little cabin was uncomfortably crowded. Grimes didn't like the way that his wife was sitting close beside Flandry on the bunk. She, obviously, didn't like the way that he was being pressed between Irene's flamboyance and Clarisse's nudity. Somebody knocked over the tank in which the psionic amplifier was housed. It did not break, but the cover came off it, allowing the stagnant nutrient solution to spill on the deck. It smelled as though something had been dead for a very long time.
Sonya sniffed. "And now what do we do?" she demanded. "I'd suggest that Clarisse get dressed, but I realize that it's almost impossible in these circumstances."
"This is your ship, Commodore," said Flandry.
"Mphm. When is your next meal due, Clarisse?"
"I . . . my watch . . . with my clothes. On the bunk. . . ."
Flandry rummaged in the little pile of garments and found the timepiece. He announced, "It is 1135 hours, this ship's time."
"Twenty-five minutes," said Clarisse.
"So we wait," said Grimes. "It'll not be for too long. Then we overpower whoever brings the tray and any other guards and take over."
Flandry laughed jeeringly. "Brilliant, Commodore. Really brilliant. And if anybody fires into this dogbox he'll get at least four of us with one shot."
"Have you any better ideas, Captain?"
"Of course," Flandry replied smugly. "If I am not mistaken, those weapons being toted around by Sonya, Captain Trafford and Mr. Metzenther are laser pistols. They are not used much in my continuum, but you people seem to like them. A laser pistol can be used as a tool as well as a handgun. A cutting tool. . . ."
"So we break out, rather than wait to be let out."
"A truly blinding glimpse of the obvious, sir."
Trafford was nearest the door. "Go ahead, please, Captain," said Grimes.
The little man unholstered his weapon. He pulled out a slender screwdriver that had been recessed in the butt of it. Carefully, not hurrying, he made adjustments to the power settings. He replaced the screwdriver.
Grimes took a pencil from Clarisse. He managed to shove his way through the crowd to stand beside Trafford. He drew a rough circle on the smooth, painted metal panel of the door. He said, "The lock should be there, Captain. If you burn around it. . . ."
"I'll try, Commodore."
The narrow beam of intensely bright light shot from the muzzle of the pistol. Metal became blue white incandescent immediately but was reluctant to melt. The structural components of a starship are designed to withstand almost anything. Trafford removed his finger from the trigger, used the screwdriver to make further adjustments. Then he tried again.
Grimes had foreseen what was going to happen. After all, as Flandry had pointed out, this was his ship. Grimes should have warned the others, but this chance to see the silly grin wiped off Sir Dominic's face was not one to be passed over.
The air in the watch room became stiflingly hot, and acrid with the fumes of burning paint and metal. And then. . . .
And then there were bells ringing, some close and some distant, filling the echoing shell of Faraway Quest with their clangor. A klaxon added its stridency to the uproar. From the nozzles of the spray system jetted a white foam that blanketed everything and everybody. Flandry cursed, but he could never hope to match Irene's picturesque obscenities and blasphemies.
The door sagged open.
Grimes, pistol in hand, shoved past Trafford, out into the brightly lit alleyway. Sonya, looking like a figure roughly hacked from
white foam plastic, was behind him, then Trafford, then Irene. Metzenther staggered out supporting Clarisse, who looked as though she had just emerged from a bubble bath.
"You bloody fool," gasped Flandry, who was last to emerge. "You bloody fool! You should have known. . . ."
"I did know," snapped Grimes. "Pipe down, damn you!"
The fire-extinguishing foam was pouring out into the alleyway. Grimes motioned to the others to follow suit, dropped to his knees, let the cool, not unpleasantly acrid froth almost cover him. How long would it be before the fire-fighting party was on the scene? When Quest's own crew had been running the ship scant seconds would have elapsed; but Druthen and his scientists and technicians were not spacemen, and at least one of the three officers put aboard from Adler would be remaining in the control room.
Somebody, somewhere, switched the alarms off. So they realized that there was a fire. And without that incessant noise it was possible to think, to give orders.
"Keep covered," said Grimes. "They'll not see us until it's too late." He added, in a disgruntled voice, "The bastards are certainly taking their time. Billy Williams and his crowd would have had the fire out half an hour ago!"
"Glumph," replied Sonya through a mouthful of foam.
They were here at last, rounding the curve in the alleyway: a tall figure in a space suit, the spiked helmet of which made it obvious that he was a member of the Waldegren Navy, four men in civilian space armor, pushing a wheeled tank.
"Lasers only," whispered Grimes. "Fire!"
Lasers are silent—but they are dreadfully lethal. Grimes hated to have to do it—but the fire fighters must be given no chance to warn Druthen and von Donderberg in Control. Druthen's men were hijackers, and their lives were already forfeit. The universal penalty for this crime is death. The Waldegrener was acting under orders, but he had no business aboard Grimes' ship. What happened to him was just his bad luck.
Grimes stood up slowly in the waist-high foam. He looked at the five silent figures. They were dead all right, each of them with his armor neatly pierced in half a dozen places. There was no blood, luckily, and luckily nobody had employed the effective slashing technique, so the suits were still reasonably intact.
Five of them, he thought, trying hard to fight down his nausea. Seven of us. Flandry can wear the Waldegren space suit—it'll fit him. Then myself And Sonya. Irene? Metzenther? Trafford? Clarisse?
He said, "Get the armor off them. It's a made-to-order disguise."
Trafford, Flandry and Sonya went to work. The smell of charred meat and burned blood was distressingly evident. Suddenly, Sonya beckoned to Grimes. He went to look down at the stripped figure. It was a woman. She was, she had been one of the junior technicians. Grimes remembered her. He had referred to her, in his thoughts, as a hard-faced little bitch. Feeling sorry for this would not help her now.
He walked slowly back to where Clarisse was standing, patches of foam slipping slowly down her smooth skin, others still clinging to the salient points of her body. He whispered, pointing, "You know her?"
"Yes."
"Wear her suit. Speak into the suit radio, using her voice. . . . You can do that?"
"Of course."
"Report that the fire is under control. Should Druthen or von Donderberg feel uneasy about anything you, as a telepath, will know the right things to say to put their minds at rest. Say that we are returning topside to report as soon as the fire is out. Get it?"
"Yes."
"Then get suited up."
She obeyed him, assisted by Sonya and Irene. She spurned their suggestion that she should wear the dead woman's long johns. Grimes didn't blame her, although he winced at the thought of the unlined inside of the suit chafing her unprotected skin.
Then Grimes, too, stripped to his skimpy underwear, could not bring himself to put on a dead man's next-to-the-skin union suit. Neither could Sonya. But the corpse robbing worried neither Irene nor Flandry.
The bodies were concealed in the congealing foam, which hid, too, the tools taken from the belt pouches of the fire party. Those same pouches served as holsters for the weapons of Grimes and his people. It was decided that Trafford and Metzenther, who had been unable to disguise themselves, would stay in the watch room. They would be safe enough there, especially since Metzenther should be able to give ample advance warning of the approach of any hostile persons.
Then, speaking in a voice that was not her own, Clarisse said into her helmet microphone, "Sadie Hawkes reporting to Dr. Druthen. The fire's out. Nothing serious. That stupid bitch was burning papers for some reason or other."
"Is she hurt?" Druthen's voice did not betray much, if any, concern.
"Naw, Doc. We just slapped her round a little, is all."
Von Donderberg's voice came through the speakers. "Lieutenant Muller."
"Sorry, Commander," Clarisse told him. "The Lieutenant slipped on the foam an' caught his helmet a crack. His transceiver's on the blink."
"Where is the prisoner now?" inquired Druthen.
"We left her in her bubble bath to cool down. Ha, ha."
"Ha, ha," echoed Dr. Druthen.
Ha, ha, thought Grimes nastily.
24
Grimes led the way into the control room. (After all, this was his ship.) He was followed by Flandry, whose right hand hovered just over the butt of his energy pistol, then by Sonya, then by Irene. Clarisse caught up the rear.
Druthen and von Donderberg swiveled in their chairs to face the returning fire-fighting party. The scientist was fatly arrogant. The Waldegrener looked more than a little frayed around the edges. It's your own fault, thought Grimes. If you aren't fussy about the company you keep. . . .
Grimes and the others stood there. Druthen and von Donderberg sat there. Grimes knew that he should act and act fast, but he was savoring this moment. Druthen, an expression of petulant impatience growing on his face, snarled, "Take your bloody helmets off! Anybody'd think there was a smell in here." His words, although distorted by the suit diaphragms, were distinct enough.
"There is," replied Grimes. "You."
The scientist's face turned a rich purple. He sputtered, "Mutinous swine! Von Donderberg, you heard! Do something!"
Von Donderberg shrugged. There was a flicker of amusement in his blue eyes.
Grimes said, "Mutiny, Dr. Druthen? I am arresting you for mutiny and piracy." He fumbled for his Minetti, but the little pistol, unlike the heavier weapons carried by the others, was not suitable for use by a man wearing space armor with its clumsy gloves.
But Flandry's odd-looking weapon was out, as were Sonya's and Irene's pistols. Druthen stared at them helplessly, von Donderberg in a coldly calculating manner. "You will note, Herr Doktor," remarked the Waldegren officer, "that there are neat holes in those space suits, holes that could have been made by laser fire at short range." He seemed to be speaking rather louder than was really necessary. "It would seem that our prisoners somehow have escaped and have murdered my Lieutenant Muller and four of your people." He turned to face Grimes. "You will surrender."
"I admire your nerve," Grimes told him.
"That is not one of the prisoners!" exclaimed Druthen. "It's that bastard Grimes! But that's impossible!"
"It's not, Doctor. It's not." The Commodore was really enjoying himself. "You sneered at me—remember—for carrying a practicing witch on my Articles of Agreement. . . ."
The practicing witch screamed, "John! The Carlotti set! It's on! Adler's seeing and hearing everything!"
And Adler's temporal precession rate was synchronized with that of Faraway Quest. No doubt her cannon and projectors were already trained upon their target. No doubt boarding parties were already suited up and hurrying into the warship's airlocks.
Grimes swore. His gloating could easily have ruined everything. He dived for the Mannschenn Drive remote controls. He heard pistol fire as somebody, Irene probably, switched off the Carlotti transceiver in an effective but destructive manner. Von Donderberg got in his way,
grappled him. The Waldegrener was a strong man and agile, whereas Grimes was hampered by his armor. His body was a barrier between the Commodore and the Mannschenn Drive control console. Brutally, Grimes flailed at him with his mailed fists, but von Donderberg managed to get a firm grip on both his wrists. Grimes tried to bring his knee up, but he was too slow and the foul blow was easily avoided.
It was Irene who settled matters. (After all, this was not her ship.) Her heavy pistols barked deafeningly, the slugs just missing Grimes (intentionally, he hoped) and von Donderberg. The face of the control panel splintered; otherwise the immediate results were unspectacular.
The Dark Dimensions Page 11
