First Command

by A Bertram Chandler

  Botany Bay, throughout, could boast of almost unspoiled scenery. In all industrial establishments ugliness had been avoided. In the cities there had been a deliberate revival of architectural styles long vanished, except in isolated cases, from Earth. Paddington, for example, was a greatly enlarged, idealized version of the Terran Paddington, maintained as a historical curiosity in the heart of sprawling Sydney. There were the narrow, winding streets, tree lined, and the terrace houses, none higher than three stories, each with its balconies ornamented by metal railings cast in intricate floral designs. It was all so archaic, charmingly so. Grimes remembered a party to which he had been invited in the original Paddington. The host, when accused of living in a self-consciously ancient part of Sydney, had replied, “We Australians don’t have much history—but, by any deity you care to name, we make the most of what we have got!”

  This Paddington, the Botany Bay Paddington, was a city, not a mere inner suburb. It stood on the western shore of the great, natural harbor called Port Jackson. Its eastern streets ran down to the harbor beaches. To the west of it was the airport, and also the Bradman Oval. To the south and east were the port facilities for surface shipping. To the north were The Heads, the relatively narrow entrance to the harbor. And on the north coast were the high cliffs, with bays and more sandy beaches.

  Grimes studied the aerial view of the city and its environs that was being transmitted to him. He could foresee no difficulties in making a landing. He would keep well to the west on his way down, so that if, in the event of a breakdown of his inertial drive, he were obliged to use the auxiliary reaction drive he would do no damage to the city.

  He had wanted to adhere to the standard practice of the Survey Service and bring the ship down at dawn, but the mayor would not agree to this. “Come off it, Skip!” she remonstrated. “I don’t like gettin’ up at Matilda-less hours, even if you do! Wot’s wrong wif ten hundred? The streets’ll be aired by then, an’ everybody’!! be up an’ dressed. We want ter see yer comin’ down. We don’t want ter be starin’ up inter the gloom ter watch somethin’ droppin’ down outa the sky that could be no more than a solid-lookin’ cloud wif a few lights hung on it!”

  Grimes was obliged to agree. As a Survey Service captain he was supposed to make friends as well as to influence people. Meanwhile, as a preliminary measure, he had certain of the ship’s clocks adjusted to synchronize with Paddington Local Time. Ten hundred hours Mavis had said, and he was determined that the pads of his tripedal landing gear would touch the turf of the Oval at precisely that time.

  It was a fine, clear morning when Discovery dropped down through the atmosphere. Her inertial drive was working sweetly, but inevitably noisily, and Grimes wondered what the colonists would be thinking of the irregular beat of his engines, the loud, mechanical clangor driving down from above. Their own machines—with the exception of the few jet planes—were so silent. In the periscope screen the large island, the continent that had been named New Australia, showed in its entirety. Its outline was not dissimilar to that of the original Australia, although there was no Tasmania, and Port Jackson was on the north and not the east coast. The coastal fringe was green, but inland there were large desert areas, the sites of the solar power stations.

  Grimes glanced at the control room clock, which was now keeping local time. There was time to spare; he could afford to take things easily.

  “Target,” announced Tangye. “Bearing 020, range fifty. Closing.”

  “Altitude?” asked Grimes.

  “It’s matching altitude with us, sir.”

  “It can’t be one of the airships this high,” said Grimes. He added nastily, “And, anyhow, we don’t have Major Swinton at fire control this time.”

  He turned away from his console to look out of the viewports on the bearing indicated. Yes, there the thing was, a silvery speck, but expanding, closing fast.

  “What if they are hostile, Captain?” asked Brabham. “We’re a sitting duck.”

  “If they are hostile,”-Grimes told him, “we’ll give them the privilege of firing the first shot.”

  “It’s one of their jets,” said Tangye.

  “So it is,” agreed Grimes. “So it is. They’re doing the right thing; laying on an escort.”

  The aircraft closed them rapidly, circled them in a slowly descending spiral. It was, obviously, a passenger plane, with swept-back wings. Grimes could see men in the forward control cabin. They waved. He waved back, then returned his attention to handling the ship. He hoped that the jet pilot would not attempt to approach too close.

  He could see Port Jackson plainly enough in the screen now, a great irregular bite out of the northern coastline. He could see the golden beaches with a cream of surf outlining them and—very small, a mere, crawling insect—one of the big schooners standing in toward The Heads. And there were two more targets announced by the radar-watching Tangye—airships this time, huge brutes with the sunlight reflected dazzlingly from their metal skins.

  A familiar voice came from the speaker of the control room transceiver. “That’s a noisy bitch yer’ve got there, Skip. Sounds like umpteen tons of old tin cans fallin’ downstairs. Just as well yer didn’t come in at sparrer fart.”

  “Do you have sparrows here?” asked Grimes interestedly.

  “Nah. Not reel sparrers. But it’s what we call one o’ the native birds. Don’t know how it got by before it had human bein’s ter bludge on.”

  “Mphm. Excuse me, Mavis, but I’d like to concentrate on my pilotage now.”

  “That’s what me late husband useter say. He was skipper o’ one o’ the coastal schooners. Oh, well, I can take a hint.”

  Grimes could see the city now—red roofs and gray, a few towers of pseudo-Gothic appearance. He could see the airport, with one big dirigible at its mooring mast like an oversized wind sock. And there, just beyond it, was the Bradman Oval, a darkly green recreation area with spectators’ stands around it and, he was pleased to note, a triangle of red flashing lights, bright even in the general brightness of the morning. The radio beacon had been set up as requested by Grimes, but he preferred to use visual aids whenever possible.

  The Oval expanded to fill the screen. The stands, Grimes saw, were crowded. He thought sourly, These bastards have more faith in my innies than I do. If the inertial drive were to break down, necessitating the use of the emergency reaction drive, there would be a shocking tragedy. But the beat of the engines still sounded healthy enough. He applied a touch of lateral thrust, brought the three beacons into the center of the screen. He looked at the clock: 0953. He was coming down just a little too fast. A slight, very slight increase of vertical thrust. The figures on the face of the radar altimeter nickered down in slightly slower succession.

  That should do it, thought Grimes smugly.

  Eleven . . . ten . . . nine . ..

  And, on the clock, 0955.

  Seven . . . six . . . five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one. . . 0959.

  Gently, gently, thought Grimes.

  Zero!

  And, on the clock, the sweep second hand jumped to the same numeral.

  The ship groaned and shuddered as her weight came onto the shock absorbers, and silence fell like a blow when the inertial drive was shut down. But there was another noise, a tumult that Grimes at first could not identify. Then he realized that it was cheering, noisy cheering, loud enough to be heard even inside the buttoned-up ship. And, faintly, there was the noise of a band. “Waltzing Matilda” (of course).

  He looked out of the port at the waving crowds, at the blue flags, with their Union Jacks and Southern Crosses, flying from every mast around the Oval.

  “So yer made it, Skip,” the mayor’s voice issued from the speaker. “Bang on time, too! Welcome to Botany Bay! Welcome to Paddo!”

  “I’m glad to be here, Your Ladyship,” replied Grimes formally.

  “It’s a pleasure ter have yer. But is it safe ter come near yer ship? You ain’t radioactive or anythin’,
are yer?”

  “Quite safe,” said Grimes. “I’ll meet you at the after airlock.”

  Chapter 26

  Grimes, after issuing instructions, went down to his quarters to change. He had decided that this was an occasion for some show of formality, no matter how free and easy the people of this Lost Colony seemed to be. Or—he had his contrary moments—it was this very freeness and easiness that had induced in him the desire to be stiff and starchy. He got out of his comfortable shorts and open-necked shirt, replacing the latter with a stiff, snowy-white one. He knotted a black necktie about his throat, then thrust his legs into sharply creased black trousers. The bemedaled frock coat came next, then the sword belt and the quite useless ceremonial sword. Highly polished black shoes on his feet, the fore-and-aft hat with its trimmings of gold braid on his head. He inspected his reflection in the full-length mirror inside his wardrobe door, holding himself stiffly at attention. He’d do, he decided.

  He took the elevator down to the after airlock. The others were waiting for him—the Mad Major, temporarily forgiven, with a half dozen of his men. The Marines, too, were in their dress finery, blue and scarlet and gleaming brass. Swinton was wearing a sword, his men carried archaic (but nonetheless lethal) rifles. Tangye, one of the few officers to possess a presentable full dress uniform, was there, as was Vinegar Nell, in the odd rig prescribed by the Survey Service for its female officers on state occasions, best described as, a long-skirted, long-sleeved black evening frock, trimmed with gold braid and brass buttons and worn over a white shirt and black tie, topped with a hat like the one Grimes was wearing. But she carried it well.

  The outer airlock door slowly opened, and as it did so the ramp was extruded, its end sinking to the close-cropped grass. Grimes stepped out into the warm, fresh air, the bright sunlight. He was thankful that his uniform had been tailored from the lightest possible material. As he appeared there was a great welcoming roar from the crowds in the Stands. He paused, saluted smartly, then continued down the ramp. After him came Tangye and the paymaster, and after them, their boots crashing rhythmically on the metal gangway, marched the Marines.

  There was a stir among the crowd on the stand immediately facing the airlock. In the broad aisle between it and its neighbor a coach appeared, a vehicle drawn by four gleaming black horses, the first of what looked like a procession of such vehicles. Grimes, standing at the foot of the ramp, the others drawn up behind him, watched with interest. Yes, that was the mayor in the first coach, and other women and men with her. From this distance he could not be sure, but it did not look as though anybody had made any attempt to dress up. The driver was in some sort of khaki uniform with a broad-brimmed hat. But what was Brabham waiting for?

  Suddenly, from overhead, there came a deafening boom, the first round of the twenty-one-gun salute, fired from one of the forty-millimeter cannon, using special blank cartridges.

  Boom!

  The coachmen were having trouble controlling their horses.

  Boom!

  The horses of the second and third coaches had bolted, had begun to gallop around the Oval like the start of a chariot race.

  Grimes lifted his wrist transceiver to his mouth. “Brabham, hold. . .”

  Boom!

  “Brabham, hold your fire!”

  “But that’s only four rounds, sir,” came the tinny whisper in reply.

  “Never mind. Hold your fire.”

  The driver of the mayor’s coach had his animals under control at last. He came on steadily, then reined in about ten meters from the foot of the ramp. From one of his pockets he produced a cigarette, lit it with a flaring lighter, then sat there stolidly with the little crumpled cylinder dangling from the corner of his mouth. He stared at Grimes and his entourage with a certain hostility.

  Another khaki-uniformed man was first out. He assisted the mayor to the ground. She emerged from the vehicle with a lavish display of firm, brown thigh. She was wearing a short tunic, with sandals on her feet, only the mayoral chain of office adding a touch of formality. Her blue eyes were angry, her mouth drawn down in a scowl.

  Grimes saluted with drawn sword. The Marines presented arms with a slap and rattle.

  She demanded, “Wodyer playin’ at, you stupid drongo? You said there’d be no bleedin’ fireworks.”

  Grimes sheathed his sword. He said stiffly. “It is customary, Your Ladyship, to accord heads of state the courtesy of a twenty-one-gun salute.”

  “That may be where you come from, Skip, but it certainly ain’t here. You scared shit outa the horses.”

  “Too flamin’ right,” commented the coachman. “Wodyer think me wheels was skiddin’ on?”

  “I’m sorry,” Grimes began lamely.

  The mayor smiled, broadly and dazzlingly. “So’m I. But this ain’t a way for me to be welcomin’ long-lost relatives from the old world.” Suddenly she threw her plump arms about Grimes and drew him to her resilient breast, kissed him warmly full on the mouth. He felt himself responding—and was somehow aware of the disapproving glare that Vinegar Nell was directing at the back of his head.

  “That’s better,” murmured the mayor, pulling reluctantly away. “A lot better. Kiss an’ make up, that’s what I always say. An’ now, Skip, wot about introducin’ me to the lady and these other gentlemen?”

  “Your Ladyship,” Grimes began.

  “Mavis, you drongo. Even if you’re all dressed up like a Christmas tree, I ain’t.”

  “Mavis, may I introduce my paymaster.”

  “Paymaster? Paymistress, if I’m any good at guessin’.”

  “Lieutenant Russell.”

  Vinegar Nell saluted and contrived to convey by her expression that she didn’t want to be mauled.

  “Major Swinton, my Marine officer.”

  Swinton’s salute did not save him from a motherly kiss on the cheek.

  “And Lieutenant Tangye, my navigator.” Tangye’s face was scarlet when he was released.

  “An’ what about these other blokes?” demanded Mavis.

  “Er . . .” began Grimes, embarrassed.

  “Private Briggs,” snapped Swinton, stepping smartly into the breach. “Private Townley. Private Gale. Private Roskov. Private O’Neill. Private Mackay.”

  “Well?” demanded the big woman. “Well?”

  Now it was Swinton’s turn to feel embarrassment. The six men stood stiffly like wooden soldiers.

  “Well?”

  “Stack your rifles,” ordered Swinton.

  The men did so.

  “Advance to be greeted by Her Ladyship.”

  The order was obeyed with some enthusiasm.

  When the introductions were over the mayor said, “Natterin’ to you on the radio, Skip, I never dreamed that you were such a stuffed shirt. All o’ yer are stuffed shirts. Looks like Earth ain’t changed since our ancestors had the sense ter get the hell out.”

  “And this, I suppose,” said Grimes, “is one of those worlds like Liberty Hall, where you can spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard.”

  “You said it, Skip, you said it!” exclaimed Mavis, bursting into delighted laughter. Grimes laughed too. He had thought that expression very funny the first time that he had heard it—how many years ago?—and he was delighted to be able to use it on somebody to whom it was new and brilliantly witty.

  Chapter 27

  Grimes had liked Mavis since his first sight of her in the monitor screen. He liked her still more now that he had actually met her. He kept on recalling a phrase that he had once heard—A heart as big as all outdoors. It applied to her. She was big in all ways, although in her dress that concealed little it was obvious that her body was all firm flesh, with no hint of flabbiness.

  He was entertaining her and other officials in his day-cabin, with some of his own officers also present—Dr. Brandt, Brabham, and Vinegar Nell, who was kept busy refilling glasses and passing around dishes of savories. She, alone of all those present, seemed not to approve of the informality, the use of g
iven names rather than titles and surnames. There was Jock, the man in the khaki shorts-and-shirt uniform who had assisted the mayor from the coach and who was City Constable. There was Pete, with a floral shirt over the inevitable shorts and sandals, who was president of the Air Pilots’ Guild. There was Jimmy, similarly attired, who was master of the Seamen’s Guild. There was Doug and Bert, mayors of Ballina and Esperance respectively, who had flown by fast jet from their cities to be present at Discovery’s landing.

  Mavis, watching Vinegar Nell, said, “Why don’t yer scarper, dearie, an’ change inter somethin’ more comfy? Any o’ our barmaids havin’ to wear wot you’ve got on ‘d go on stroke, an’ quite right, too!”

  “What do your barmaids wear?” asked Grimes interestedly.

  “At the beach eateries, nuffin’.”

  “So you have a culture similar to that of Arcadia?” asked Brandt.

  “Arcadia? Where in hell’s that?”

  “It’s a planet,” explained Grimes, “with an ideal climate, where the people are all naturists.”

  “Naturists, Skip? Wot’s that?”

  “Nudists.”

  “You mean they run around in the nudie all the time?”

  “Yes.”

  “No matter wot they’re doin’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sounds screwy ter me—as screwy as wearin’ anything when yer goin’ inter the sea for a dip. Oh, well, takes all sorts ter make a universe, don’t it?”

  “Have I your permission to change into undress uniform, Commander Grimes?” asked Vinegar Nell coldly.

  “Of course, Miss Russell.” Grimes wondered what the effect would be if Vinegar Nell returned to the daycabin in the undress uniform in which he had often seen her.

  “And ain’t it time that you got outer yer admiral’s suit?” Mavis asked Grimes.