“Damn it all!” he had exploded, “I shall have Kane to deal with. And if what I suspect is true, legally I won’t have a leg to stand on. Not unless you can pull a rabbit out of the hat.”
“Not a rabbit,” she told him. “Most definitely not a rabbit.”
And that was all that he could get from her.
He had made use of the ship’s memory bank encyclopedia facilities. In a Survey Service vessel these, of course, were continually kept up to date. He learned that although a committee was considering revisal, or even repeal, of the Non-Citizen Act this piece of legislation was still law. As far as he could see the act applied most specifically to the natives of Morrowvia—and that left him well and truly up the well known creek, without a paddle.
And here was Kane, dropping down from the morning sky, a man who knew Federation law so well that he could always bend it without actually breaking it. Here was Kane, a shipmaster and a shipowner who had learned that his vessel had been as good as (as bad as) wrecked by the officious actions of a relatively junior Survey Service officer. Here was Kane, more than a little annoyed about the frustration of his highly profitable activities.
Here was Kane.
Southerly Buster’s pinnace slammed down alongside the parent ship in a flurry of dust and small debris. The door opened and Kane jumped out. He was no longer wearing his gaudy finery but had changed into utilitarian gray coveralls. Sabrina, still aglitter with jewelry, appeared in the doorway but Kane, irritably, motioned her back inside.
Dreebly, his head bandaged, came out of the ship. He stood there, drooping, while Kane obviously gave him a merciless dressing down. Then, slowly, the two men walked all around the crippled hulk, with the mate pointing out details of exterior damage. Grimes already knew what the damage was like inside—the Mannschenn Drive torn from its housing, the hydroponics tanks a stinking mess of shattered plastic and shredded greenery, most of the control room instruments inoperable if not completely ruined.
Saul came to stand by his captain’s side. They watched as Kane and Dreebly clambered into the near-wreck through an amidships cargo hatch. The first lieutenant said happily, “You certainly put paid to his account, sir.”
Grimes said, not so happily, “I only hope that he doesn’t put paid to mine . . . .”
“But, sir, the man’s a blackbirder, a slave trader! You’ve wrecked his ship—but that was the only way that you could stop the commission of a crime.”
“Strong measures, Mr. Saul—especially if there were no crime being committed.”
“But he fired on us, sir.”
“At, not on. And we fired at him first.”
“But he still hasn’t a leg to stand on . . . .”
“Hasn’t he? I’ve checked up on the Non-Citizen Act. I’m afraid that the Morrowvians do not qualify for citizenship. They have no rights whatsoever.”
“I don’t see it, sir. They’re backward, I suppose—but they’re as human as you or I.”
“They’re not,” Grimes told him. “They’re not, and that’s the bloody trouble. What do you know of the Non-Citizen Act, Mr. Saul?”
“Not much, sir. But I can check up on it.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll fill you in. That particular piece of legislation dates back to the bad old days when, briefly, the genetic engineers had far too much say. Although they were concerned primarily with the life sciences their outlook was that of engineers. You know, as well as I do, the peculiarities of the engineering outlook. If human beings and machines can’t work together with maximum efficiency—then modify the human to suit the machine, not the other way round. A planet, like a house, is a machine for living in. If it is not suited to its intending occupants—then modify the occupants to fit. Then the generic engineers took things further. They manufactured, in their laboratories, androids—beings of synthetic flesh and blood that were, in effect, artificial men and women. Then they made ‘underpeople’; the word was coined by a Twentieth Century science fiction writer called Cordwainer Smith and later, much later, used in actual fact. These underpeople were even less human than the androids, their very appearance making obvious their animal origins. They could not interbreed with true humans any more than the androids could—but they could breed, although they could not crossbreed. Put it this way—a dogman could mate with a dogwoman and fertilize her, or a catman with a catwoman. Only dogs—or ex-dogs—with dogs. Only cats—or ex-cats—with cats.
“Then there was the Android Revolt on Dancey. There was the virtual take-over of Tallis by the underpeople, although without bloodshed. The Federation Government put its foot down with a firm hand. No more androids were to be manufactured. No more underpeople were to be bred. All existing androids and underpeople were deprived of citizenship. And so on.
“It was quite some time before I realized the nature of the situation here, on Morrowvia. Kane, somehow, twigged it long before I did. But, last night, the final pieces of the jigsaw puzzle fell into place with a quite deafening click!. I should have seen it before. There are so many clues . . . .”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“You did the science fiction course at the Academy, Mr. Saul.”
“But I never cared for that wild stuff. I can’t remember much of it.”
“You must remember some of it. Anyhow, we all assumed that this planet was named after the captain of Lode Cougar. But I saw some of the records in the museum at Ballarat. Morrow was not Lodge Cougar’s master, neither was he one of her officers. He must have been one of the passengers—and a genetic engineer. I don’t know yet how many survivors there were of Lode Cougar’s original complement when she landed, although Commander Lazenby will no doubt be able to tell us. I don’t think that there could have been many. I don’t think that there were any women of childbearing age among them. But, like all the ships of her period, she carried banks of fertilized ova—both human and animal. Perhaps the human ova had been destroyed somehow—or perhaps Morrow just didn’t want to use them. Perhaps the ova of all the usual useful animals—with no exception—had been somehow destroyed—or perhaps Morrow was an aelurophile. I rather think that he was. He was also a science fiction addict—there are shelves of his books on display in the museum at Ballarat. He also had a rather warped sense of humor. The clues that he left!”
“What clues, sir?” asked Saul.
“In the names he gave—to the continent where Lode Cougar landed, to the four families that he . . . founded, to the planet itself. The planet of Doctor Morrow . . . the island of Doctor Moreau. . . .”
“You’re way beyond me, sir.”
“Mr. Saul, Mr. Saul, you should have read that Twentieth Century rubbish while you had the chance. One of Morrow’s books was The Island of Doctor Moreau, by a writer called Wells. Wells’ Doctor Moreau was a rather mad scientist who converted animals into imitation humans by crude surgical means. Morrow . . . Moreau . . . see the connection? And one of the four family names on Morrowvia is Wells, another is Morrow.
“Another book was The Planet Buyer, by Cordwainer Smith. It was Cordwainer Smith who invented the underpeople. One of his favorite planets—he wrote, of course, before men had landed on Earth’s moon—was Old North Australia, shortened to Norstrilia. So Morrow called the continent on which he landed North Australia, and made Cordwainer and Smith the other two family names.
“Meanwhile, he was having fun. He was breeding a people to fit in with all his own pet ideas. Evidently he disapproved of the nudity taboo, just as Commander Lazenby’s people do on Arcadia. His political ideas bordered on anarchism. Possibly he was an anarchist. I seem to recall from my reading of history that there was quite a powerful, or influential, Anarchist Party on Earth, in both hemispheres, at the time of the Second Expansion. It worked underground, and it contributed to the decline and fall of the Russian Empire. And we see here the results of Morrow’s ideas. Utterly unselfconscious nudism, no central government, no monetary system. . . .
“It’s a pity that this Lost Colony w
as ever discovered. Its people are more human than many who are officially so—but they have no rights whatsoever.”
There was a silence, then Saul said, “We, our people, know what it was like . . . .” Grimes looked at him rather nastily so he hastily changed the subject. “But tell me, sir, what did you mean when you said that the pieces of the puzzle fell into place last night?”
“You’ve served in Pathfinder, with Captain Lewis,” said Grimes. “So have I. You know his taste in pets. You know how obvious it is, once you step inboard through the airlock . . . .
“Well, since you ask, my quarters stink of cat.”
26
Maya joined the two men in the control room. She looked as though she had slept well. She glanced incuriously through the viewports at the disabled Southerly Buster, then said plaintively, “I’m hungry . . . “
Go down to the galley and see if the cook can find you some fish heads . . . thought Grimes—and then despised himself for thinking it. He said, “Mr. Saul, would you mind taking Maya to the wardroom for breakfast?”
“But what does she eat, sir?” asked the first lieutenant desperately.
“I’ll try anything, everything,” she said sweetly, “until I find something I like.”
Grimes watched her as she followed Saul out of the control room. There should have been, he thought, a tail ornamenting those shapely buttocks. A nice, furry, striped tail . . . He shrugged.
The officer of the watch reported, “Sir, an unidentified craft is approaching from the north.”
“That will be Schnauzer’s pinnace,” said Grimes. He went to the transceiver, selected the most probable waveband. “Commander Grimes to Captain Danzellan. Do you read me? Over.”
“Loud and clear, Commander. Danzellan here. My ETA your landing site is thirty minutes Standard, twenty-four minutes Local, from now. I have your Commander Lazenby with me. Over.”
“Thank you, Captain Danzellan.” Should he ask to speak with Maggie? No. She had made no attempt to speak with him. And Grimes was in a misogynistic mood. Women! Cats!
He returned to the viewport. He passed the time by mentally composing the sort of report—or complaint—that he would write if he were Drongo Kane.
To: Flag Officer in Charge of Lindisfarne Base
From: Drongo Kane, master and owner of s/s Southerly Buster
Subject: Piratical action by Lieutenant Commander John Grimes, Captain of ESS Seeker.
Sir,
I regret to have to report that while my vessel was proceeding on her lawful occasions she was wantonly attacked by your Seeker, under the command of your Lieutenant Commander Grimes. Commander Grimes not only used his armament to impede the embarkation of fare-paying passengers, subjecting them to a sleep gas barrage, but also fired upon Southerly Buster herself. Later he attempted to ram my ship after she had lifted off, and only the superlative skill of my chief officer, who was in charge of the vessel at the time, averted a collision. Although contact between the two ships was avoided contact with the ground was not. As a result of this, Southerly Buster sustained severe structural damage . . .
“Pinnace in sight visually, sir,” reported the O. O. W.
“Thank you, Mr. Giles.”
Danzellan came in more slowly and cautiously than Kane had done, but he wasted no time, setting his craft down at the foot of Seeker’s ramp. Grimes watched Schnauzer’s master get out, then help Maggie Lazenby to the ground. He told Giles to telephone down to the airlock sentry, instructing the man to inform Captain Danzellan and Maggie that he would be waiting for them in his quarters. He went down to his day cabin, hastily shutting the door between it and his bedroom. The smell of cat was still strong.
He found and filled his foulest pipe, lit it. When Danzellan and Maggie came in he was wreathed in an acrid, blue smog.
“What a fug!” she exclaimed.
The intercom telephone buzzed. It was the O.O.W. calling. “Sir, Captain Kane and his chief officer are at the airlock. They wish to speak to you.”
“Send them up,” said Grimes.
“What in the universe have you been doing, Commander?” asked Danzellan. “Fighting a small war?”
“Or not so small,” commented Maggie.
“I,” Grimes told them bitterly, “was attempting to prevent the commission of a crime. Only it seems that slave trading is not a crime, insofar as this bloody world is concerned.”
“The underpeople . . . “ said Maggie softly. “Underpeople—and the still unrepealed Non-Citizen Act. . . . But how did you find out? It took me hours after I was able to get my paws on the records . . . .”
“I added two and two,” Grimes told her, “and came up with three point nine recurring. All the clues are so obvious. Rudimentary nipples, paw-like hands and feet, the way in which the people eat and drink, and the use of ‘cat’ as a term of opprobrium when, apart from the Morrowvians themselves, there isn’t a single animal of Terran origin on the planet . . . .”
Danzellan grinned. “I see what you mean. I’ve been known to refer to particularly stupid officers as ‘pathetic apes.’”
“Those same points had me puzzled,” admitted Maggie. “But I’m surprised that you noticed them.”
“And Morrow’s books,” went on Grimes. “The Island of Doctor Moreau. The Cordwainer Smith novels. The names of the four families—Wells, Morrow, Cordwainer and Smith. And North Australia. . . .”
“You’re losing me there,” admitted Maggie.
A junior officer knocked at the door. “Captain Kane to see you, sir. And Mr. Dreebly.”
Kane blew into the room like the violent storm after which his ship was named. He blustered, “I’ll have your stripes for this, Grimes! As soon as your bloody admiral hears my story he’ll bust you right down to Spaceman Sixteenth Class—unless he decides to shoot you first!”
“Slave trading,” said Grimes, “is prohibited by Federation law.”
“Yeah. It is. But, Mr. Commander Grimes, such laws exist only for the protection of Federation citizens. The Morrowvians are non-citizens.”
“How do you make that out?”
“How do I make that out? Because they’re under-people, Commander—which means that they have the same status as androids, which means that they have no bloody status at all. They’re no more than cattle—with the accent on the first syllable!” He laughed briefly at his own play on words, turned to glare at Dreebly when he essayed a snicker. “The only protection they can claim is that of the S.P.C.A.—and there’s no branch of that society on Morrowvia!”
Grimes looked at Maggie appealingly. She flashed him a fleeting smile of encouragement. He looked at Danzellan. The portly shipmaster winked at him.
“Slavery,” said Grimes firmly, “is still a crime, ethically if not legally.”
“So is piracy, Grimes. Ethically and legally.”
“I seem to recall past occasions in your own career. . . .”
“We’re not talking about them. We’re talking about this occasion in your career. The unprovoked attack upon an innocent merchantman. To begin with, Grimes, you can place your artificers at my disposal. If they make a good job I just might tone my report to your bosses down a little.” He laughed lightly.”A stiff note on paper, instead of a stiff note on cardboard . . . .”
“Mphm,” grunted Grimes thoughtfully.
“In fact, Commander,” went on Kane, speaking quite quietly now, his exaggerated accent gone, “I think that you could help me considerably . . . .”
And Kane, thought Grimes, owes his survival to the number of friends he has in high places. And Kane is an opportunist. For all he knows I might be an admiral myself one day. He’s debating with himself, “Shall I put the boot in, or shall I let bygones be bygones?” Too, he’s probably not quite sure if he is altogether in the right, legally speaking . . . .
“Don’t trust him, Commander,” said Danzellan.
“Keep your nose out of this!” snarled Kane.
“I discovered this planet,” state
d Danzellan. “The Dog Star Line . . . “
“ . . . can go and cock its leg against a lamp post,” Kane finished the sentence.
“Gentlemen,” said Grimes soothingly. “Gentlemen . . . .”
“I can’t see any round here,” remarked Maggie.
“You shut up for a start,” he told her. But he realized that her flippancy had broken the tension.
“What do you say, Commander?” persisted Kane. “You have a workshop, and skilled technicians. . . . Get the old Buster back into commission for me and you can write your own report to your superiors.” He grinned. “After all, I’m just a semiliterate tramp skipper. Paperwork’s beyond my capabilities.”
“And what about me?” asked Danzellan interestedly.
“The Dog Star Line’s big enough to look after itself, Captain, as I have no doubt that it will. My own activities, for quite some time, anyhow, will be confined to this continent of New England. You,” he said generously, “can have North Australia.”
“Thank you, Captain. I appreciate the gesture. But I feel obliged to tell you that my employers are not quite the soul-less bastards that they have often been alleged to be. They would not wish to share a planet with a slaver. Not,” he added, “that it will ever come to that.”
“So you’re pulling out?” asked Kane.
“No.”
“I warn you, Captain Danzellan, that if you or your people try to make things awkward for me, I shall make things even more awkward for the Dog Star Line. They’ll finish up by buying me out, at my price. It will not be a low one.” He turned to Grimes. “And what do you say, Commander, to my proposition to you?”
“No,” said Grimes. “No, repeat no.”
“You’ll be sorry. My report—and it’s a damning one—has already been written. My Carlotti transmitter is quite powerful, and will be able to raise the Lindisfarne Base station with ease. You’d better have your letter of resignation ready.”
First Command Page 26
