“If he wants to set up any sort of Base,” countered Davinas, “he’ll be requiring regular shipments of stores and equipment and all the rest of it. Such jobs, as we both know, are usually contracted out. And if I’m Johnny-on-the-spot, with a reasonable tender in my hot little hand—”
It made sense, Grimes thought. He asked, “And will you want any sort of signed agreement, Bill?”
“You insult me, and you insult yourself. Your word’s good enough, isn’t it?”
“All right.” Grimes had made up his mind. “Where are these possible Lost Colonies of yours?”
“Parley picked them up,” said Davinas, “when I was right off my usual tramlines—anybody’s usual tramlines, come to that—doing a run between Rob Roy and Caribbea.” He pushed the coffee mugs and the thermos bottle to one side, opened the folder that he had brought from his office on the low table. He brought out a chart. “Modified Zimmerman Projection.” His thin forefinger stabbed decisively. “The Rob Roy sun, here. And Sol, as the Caribbeans call their primary, here. Between them, two G type stars, 1716 and 1717 in Ballchin’s catalog, practically in line, and as near as damn it on the same plane as Rob Roy and Caribbea. Well clear of the track, actually—but not too well clear.”
“It rather surprises me,” said Grimes, “that nobody has found evidence of intelligent life there before.”
“Why should it? When those old lodejammers were blown away to hell and gone off course—assuming that these worlds are Lost Colonies, settled by lodejammer survivors—PCOs hadn’t been dreamed of. When your Commodore Slater made his sweep through that sector of space, PCOs still hadn’t been dreamed of. Don’t forget that we had FTL ships long before we had FTL radio, either electronic or psionic.”
“But what about the odd merchant ships in more recent years, each with her trained telepath?”
“What merchant ships? As far as I know, Sundowner was the only one to travel that route, and just once, at that. I happened to be on Rob Roy, discharging a load of kippered New Maine cod, and the word got through to my agents there that one of the transgalactic clippers, on a cruise, was due in at Caribbea. She’d been chartered by some Terry outfit calling themselves The Sons of Scotia. And it seems that they were going to celebrate some Earth calendar religious festival—Burns Night—there.”
“Burns?” murmured Grimes. “Let me see. Wasn’t he a customs officer? An odd sort of chap to deify.”
“Ha, ha. Anyhow, the Punta del Sol Hotel at Port of Spain sent an urgent Carlottigram to Rob Roy to order a large consignment of haggis and Scotch whiskey. I was the only one handy to lift it. I got it there on time, too, although I just about burned out the main bearings of the Mannschenn Drive doing it.”
“And did they enjoy their haggis?” wondered Grimes.
“I can’t say. I didn’t. The shippers presented me with half a dozen of the obscene things as a token of their appreciation. Perhaps we didn’t cook them properly.”
“Or serve them properly. I don’t suppose that Sundowner could run to a bagpiper to pipe them in to the messroom table.”
“That could have been the trouble.” Davinas looked at his watch. “I hate to hurry you up, John—but I always like to get my shut-eye before I take the old girl upstairs. But, before you go, I’d like to work out some way that you can let me know if you find anything. A simple code for a message, something that can’t be cracked by the emperor of Waverley’s bright boys. As you see from the chart, those two suns are practically inside Waverley’s sphere of influence. I want to be first ship on the scene—after you, of course. I don’t want to be at the tail end of a long queue of Imperial survey ships and freighters escorted by heavy cruisers.”
“Fair enough,” agreed Grimes. “Fair enough. Just innocent Carlottigrams that could be sent by anybody, to anybody. Greetings messages? Yes. Happy Birthday, say, for the first world, that belonging to 1717. Happy Anniversary for the 1716 planet. Signed ‘John’ if it’s worth your while to persuade your owners to let you come sniffing around.
Signed ‘Peter’ if you’d be well advised not to come within a hundred light-years.
“But you’ll be hearing from me. I promise you that.”
“Thank you,” said Davinas. “Thank you,” said Grimes.
Chapter 11
Davinas phoned down to the night watchman to ask him to order a cab for Grimes. While they were waiting for the car he poured glasses of an excellent Scotch whiskey from Rob Roy. They were finishing their drinks when the night watchman reported that the car was at the ramp.
Grimes was feeling smugly satisfied when he left Sundowner. It certainly looked as though he had been handed his Lost Colony—correction, two Lost Colonies—on a silver tray. And this Davinas was a very decent bloke, and deserved any help that Grimes would be able to give him.
The ride back to the mayor’s palace was uneventful. The party was still in progress in the huge ballroom; the girl at the synthesizer controls was maintaining a steady flow of dance music, although only the young were still on the floor. The older people were gathered around the buffet tables, at which the supplies of food and drink were being replenished as fast as they dwindled.
Grimes joined Brabham and Vinegar Nell, who were tucking into a bowl of caviar as though neither of them had eaten for a week, washing it down with locally made vodka,
“Be with us, sir,” said Brabham expansively. “A pity they didn’t bring this stuff out earlier. If I’d known this was going to come up, I’d not have ruined my appetite on fishcakes and sausage rolls!”
Grimes spread a buttered biscuit with the tiny, black, glistening eggs, topped it up with a hint of chopped onion and a squeeze of lemon juice. “You aren’t doing too badly now. Mphm. Not bad, not bad.”
“Been seeing how the poor live, sir?” asked the first lieutenant.
“What do you mean?”
“You went off with Sundowner’s old man.”
“Oh, yes. He has quite a nice ship. Old, but very well looked after.”
“Sometimes I wonder if I wouldn’t have done better in the merchant service,” grumbled Brabham. “Even the Rim Worlds Merchant Service. I was having a yarn with Sundowner’s chief officer. He tells me that the new government-owned shipping line, Rim Runners, is recruiting personnel. I’ve a good mind to apply.”
“Nobody in the Survey Service would miss you,” said Vinegar Nell. Then, before Brabham could register angry protest, she continued, “Nobody in the Survey Service would miss any of us. We’re the square pegs, who find that every hole’s a round one.” She turned to Grimes, who realized that she must have been drinking quite heavily. “Come on, Captain! Out with it! What was in your sealed orders? Instructions to lose us all down some dark crack in the continuum, yourself included?”
“Mphm,” grunted Grimes noncommittally, helping himself to more caviar. He noticed that the civilians in the vicinity had begun to flap their ears. He said firmly, “Things aren’t as bad as they seem.” He tried to make a joke of it. “In any case, I haven’t lost a ship yet.”
“There has to be a first time for everything,” she said darkly.
“Some people are lucky,” commented Brabham. “In the Survey Service, as everywhere else, luck counts for more than ability.”
“Some people have neither luck nor ability,” said Vinegar Nell spitefully. The target for this barbed remark was obvious—and Brabham, feared Grimes, would be quite capable of emptying the bowl of caviar over her head if she continued to needle him. And the captain of a ship, justly or unjustly, is held responsible for the conduct of his officers in public places. His best course of action would be to separate his first lieutenant and his paymaster before they came to blows.
“Shall we dance, Miss Russell?” he asked.
She produced a surprisingly sweet smile. “But of course, Captain.”
The synthesizer was playing a song that he had heard before, probably a request from those of Sundowner’s people who were still at the party. The tune was old
, very old, but the words were new, and Rim Worlders had come to regard it as their very own.
Good-bye, I’ll run to find another sun
Where I may find
There are worlds more kind than the ones left behind . . .
Vinegar Nell, fitting into his arms as though she belonged there, had always belonged there, was singing softly as she danced. And was he, Grimes, dancing as well as he thought he was? Probably not, he admitted to himself, but she made him feel that he was cutting a fine figure on the polished floor. And she was making him feel rather more than that. He was acutely conscious of the tightness of the crotch of his dress trousers.
When the number was over he was pleased to see that Brabham had wandered off somewhere by himself, but he was not pleased when Commander Denny claimed Vinegar Nell for the next dance, and still less pleased when he found himself having to cope with Denny’s wife. He suffered. It was like having to tow an unwieldy captive balloon through severe atmospheric turbulence. But then the Mayoress made a welcome change, although she chattered incessantly. After her, there were a few girls whose names he promptly forgot.
Vinegar Nell again, and the last dance.
Good night! ladies,
Good night, ladies,
Good night, ladies . . .
We’re bound to leave you now. . . .
“But you don’t have to leave me, John,” she whispered.
Mphm?
And everybody was singing:
Merrily we roll along,
Roll along, roll along,
Merrily we roll along
O’er the bright blue sea. . . .
He said, “We have to roll along back to the ship, after we’ve said our good nights, and thanked the mayor for his party.”
She said, her mood suddenly somber, “There’s no place else to roll. Not for us.”
The synthesizer emitted a flourish of trumpets, a ruffle of drums. The dancers froze into attitudes of stiff—or not so stiff—attention. Blaring brass against a background of drumbeats, an attempt to make dreadfully trite melody sound important. It was one of those synthetic, utterly forgettable national anthems, the result, no doubt, of a competition, selected by the judges as the poor best of a bad lot. The words matched the music:
New Maine, flower of the galaxy,
New Maine, stronghold of liberty. . . .
Then: “Good night, Mr. Mayor. On behalf of my officers I must thank you for a marvelous party.”
“Good night, Captain. It was a pleasure to have you aboard. Good night, Miss Russell. If the Survey Service had more paymasters like you, I’d be a spaceman myself. Ha, ha! Good night. . . good night.”
“Good night.”
The ground cars were waiting outside, in the portico. As before, Grimes rode in the lead vehicle with Vinegar Nell and Dr. Brandt. With them, this time, was the chief engineer.
“A waste of valuable time, these social functions,” complained the scientist as they sped back toward the Base.
“Ye were nae darin’ sae bad on the free booze an’ tucker,” pointed out MacMorris.
“And neither were you, Chief,” put in Vinegar Nell.
“Ah’m no’ a dancin’ man, not like our gallant captain. An’ as for the booze an’ tucker—it’s aye a pleasure to tak’ a bite an sup wi’oot havin’ you begrudgin’ every mouthful!”
“I still say that it was a waste of time,” stated Brandt. “Commander Grimes, for example, could have spent the evening going through the port captain’s records to see if there are any reports of Lost Colonies.”
“Mphm,” grunted Grimes smugly, happily conscious of the folded copy of the chart that Davinas had given him, stiff in the inside breast pocket of his mess jacket.
They were approaching the Base now. There stood Discovery, a tall metal steeple, dull-gleaming in the wan light of the huge, high, lopsided moon. And there were great dark shapes, sluglike, oozing slowly over the concrete apron of the spaceport.
“Filthy brutes!” exclaimed the driver, breaking the morose silence that he had maintained all the way from the mayor’s palace.
“Great snakes?” asked Grimes.
“What else, Captain? Whoever decided that those bloody things should be protected should have his bloody head read!”
“You, man!” snapped Brandt. “Take us in close to one of them! Put your spotlight on it!”
“Not on your bloody life, mister! If anything scares those bastards, they squirt. And they squirt all over what scares ‘em! I have to keep this car clean, not you. Now, here you are, lady and gentlemen. I’ve brought you right back to your own front door. A very good night to you—what’s left of it!”
They got out of the car, which had stopped at the foot of Discovery’s ramp. The air was heavy with the sweet-sour stench of fresh ordure. Something splattered loudly not far from them. Their vehicle, its motor whining shrilly, made a hasty departure.
“Are you waiting outside to study the great snakes at close quarters, Doctor?” asked Grimes. “I’m not.” He started up the ramp, as hastily as possible without loss of dignity, Vinegar Nell beside him. MacMorris came after and then, after only a second’s hesitation, Brandt. At the outer airlock door the Marine sentry came to attention, saluted. Grimes wondered if the man would be as alert after Major Swinton was back safely on board.
The elevator cage was waiting for them. They got into it, were lifted through the various levels. Vinegar Nell, Brandt, and MacMorris got out at the officers’ deck. Grimes carried on to Control, found the duty officer looking out through the viewport at the lights of the cars still coming in from Penobscot.
“Oh, good morning, sir.” Then, a little wistfully, “Was it a good party?”
“It was, Mr. Farrow. Quite good.” Grimes yawned. “If any of those . . . things try to climb up the side of the ship to do their business, let me know. Good night, or good morning, or whatever.”
He went down to his quarters. He did not, he realized with some surprise, feel all that tired. He subsided into an armchair, pulled out from his pocket the copy of the star chart, unfolded it. Yes, it was certainly a good lead, and Captain Davinas was entitled to some reward for having given it to him.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in!” he called, wondering whom it could be. Not Brabham, he hoped, with some trifling but irritating worry that could well wait until a more civilized hour.
It was Vinegar Nell. She was carrying a tray upon which were a coffeepot, a cup—no, two cups—and a plate of sandwiches. She had changed out of her evening dress uniform into something that was nothing much over nothing at all. Grimes had seen her naked often enough in the sauna adjoining the ship’s gymnasium, but this was . . . different. The spectacle of a heavily perspiring female body is not very aphrodisiac; that same body suggestively and almost transparently clad is.
She said, “I thought you’d like a snack before turning in, John.”
“Thank you—er—Miss Russell.”
She stooped to set the tray on the coffee table. The top of her filmy robe fell open. Her pink-nippled breasts were high and firm.
“Shall I pour?” she asked.
“Er, yes. Please.”
She handed him a steaming cup. He was uncomfortably aware of the closeness of her, and fidgeted in his chair. He was relieved when she retired to a chair of her own.
She said, “It was a good night, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
She went on, “I’ve known you for years, haven’t I? When was it that we were first shipmates? In the old Aries, wasn’t it?
“Yes.”
“You know, John, I didn’t much like you then.”
“You didn’t much like any of us in the wardroom. After all, you were the very first spacegoing female officer of the Supply Branch, and you were . . . prickly.”
She laughed. “And you, a bright young lieutenant junior-grade, took pity on me, and made a pass at me out of the kindness of your heart.”
Grimes�
�s prominent ears were burning painfully. He could recall that scene all too well, could feel that stinging slap on his face and hear her furious voice: Take your mucky paws off me, you insufferable puppy!
He thought, And a commander, the captain of a ship, doesn’t have mucky paws, of course. But whatever sort of paws I do have, now, I’m keeping them to myself. Why, oh why, you stupid bitch, did you have to rake up that particular episode from the murky past?
She was smiling softly. “We’ve come a long way since then, haven’t we, John?”
“Mphm. Yes. Excellent coffee, this, Miss Russell. And these are very good sandwiches.”
“Yes. You always liked your belly.”
Again the memories: you swaggering spacemen think that you’re the Lord’s anointed, but you aren’t worth your keep, let alone your salaries.
“Gutsy Grimes, the stewards and stewardesses used to call you.”
“Oh. Did they?” Grimes put down a sandwich half eaten.
“Gutsy Grimes, the human garbage chute,” she reminisced sentimentally.
“Fascinating.”
And what was that perfume that she was wearing? Whatever it was, he decided that he didn’t like it. He looked at his watch. “A spot of shut-eye is indicated. We have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow. Today, I mean.”
She rose slowly to her feet, stretched and yawned like a lazy, graceful cat. Her robe fell open. Under the UV lamps in the ship’s sun room she always freckled rather than tanned, and the effect was far from displeasing—yet Grimes, perversely, forced himself to think disparagingly of mutant leopards.
First Command Page 33
