“Come in,” grunted Delamere. “Sit down,” he said reluctantly.
Grimes took what looked like the most comfortable chair. “To begin with, Commander Grimes,” said the captain, “you were appointed to my ship against my wishes.”
“And against mine, Commander Delamere,” said Grimes. “That makes us even, doesn’t it?”
“No. It does not. I’m the captain of Vega, and you’d better not forget it. Furthermore, I consider myself quite capable of mopping up your mess without any assistance from you. I have carte blanche from our lords and masters. I am empowered to treat with the government of Botany Bay as I see fit. When we get to that planet I do not expect to have you working against me, behind my back.” He picked up a thick folder from his desk. “This is the transcript of all evidence so far taken. Yours, of course. And Dr. Rath’s. And Mr. Flannery’s. From the stories of those two officers it would appear that you entered into a liaison with one of the local dignitaries, the Lady Mayor of Paddington.”
“What if I did, Delamere? Who are you to presume to judge my morals?”
“At least I have too much sense to mix business with pleasure, Grimes.”
“You can’t be getting much pleasure out of your affair with the admiral’s daughter,” agreed Grimes pleasantly. “A strictly business relationship, from your viewpoint.”
“Watch your tongue, Grimes!”
“Oh, all right, all right. That must be rather a sore point with you. Now, what do you want me for?”
“I suppose I have to put you in the picture. You’re the alleged expert on Botany Bay. I’m proceeding directly there, with no stopovers. I arrest the mutineers, using whatever force is necessary. I put a prize crew aboard Discovery—of which you will not be in command—and then the two vessels will return, in company, to Lindisfarne.” He smiled nastily. “Then there will be the courts-martial, yours included.”
“A busy voyage,” commented Grimes. “Yes. And during the voyage you, as a member of this ship’s company, will be expected to attend all drills and musters. You are to regard yourself as one of my officers—without, however, any executive powers.”
“You’d better read the regulations, Frankie,” said Grimes. He quoted, having memorized this passage, “ ‘A senior officer, traveling in a Survey Service vessel commanded by an officer of no higher rank than himself, shall be subject to that officer’s orders only during periods of actual emergency such as enemy action, shipwreck etc.’”
“You bloody space lawyer!” snarled Delamere. “I have to be, in your company,” said Grimes. “Get this straight. I’m here to advise, nothing else. Anything you want to know about Botany Bay, ask me. I’ll tell you. And I’ll turn up for your drills and musters; even a civilian passenger in a commercial space liner has to do that. I might even brush up on my navigation if you’ll let me into your sacred control room.”
“Get out!” snapped Delamere. “I’ll send for you when I want you again.”
“Temper, temper,” chided Grimes. In other circumstances he would have rebuked himself for having been so unwise as to make a dangerous enemy—but he and Delamere had always been enemies, and always would be, and nothing that he could do or say would have any effect upon the situation.
Chapter 40
There were times during the voyage to Botany Bay when Grimes toyed with the idea of becoming the ringleader of a mutiny himself. Delamere was insufferable. The only members of his crew who took him seriously, however, were among that too sizable minority who have a slavish respect for rank, no matter how earned. The others—officers and ratings alike—paid lip service to their captain’s oft iterated determination to run a taut ship, then did pretty well as they pleased. None of them, however, was foolish enough not to attend the drills that Delamere delighted in springing at odd times, although at every one of these there was much yawning and shuffling of feet.
Grimes did not succeed in making friends with any of Vega’s people. They were, he decided, afraid of him. His run of good luck had been followed by one spectacularly bad piece of luck—and the fear was there that his bad luck would rub off on them. After a subjective week or so he no longer bothered to try to be sociable. He spoke when he was spoken to, he took his place at table at mealtimes, he had an occasional drink with the frigate’s senior officers. Delamere never invited him to have a drink, and plainly resented the fact that Service protocol required him to have Grimes seated at his right hand at table.
At last he was obliged to make use of Grimes’s advisory services. It was when the voyage was almost over, when Vega, her Mannschenn Drive shut down, proceeding under inertial drive only, was approaching Botany Bay. He called Grimes up to the control room. “You’re the expert,” he sneered. “What am I supposed to do now, Commander?”
“To begin with, Commander, you can make a start by monitoring the local radio stations. They have newscasts every hour, on the hour.”
“On what frequencies?”
“I don’t know. I left all such sordid details to my radio officers.” There was an unsuccessfully suppressed snigger from the Senior Sparks, who was in the control room. Grimes went on. “It will be advisable, too, to make a check to see if there’s anything in orbit about the planet. There weren’t any artificial satellites when I was here—but it’s possible that Brabham may have put up an armed pinnace as a guard ship.”
“I’d already thought of that, Commander,” said Delamere. (It was obvious that he hadn’t.) He turned to his navigator. “Mr. Prokieff, will you make the necessary observations? We should be close enough to the planet by now.”
Grimes looked at the gleaming instrumentation in the control room, all far more up to date than what he had been obliged to make do with in Discovery. With that gear, he thought, the satellite search could have been initiated days ago, as soon as we reemerged into normal space-time.
A voice came through the intercom speaker. “Radio office here, control room. We are monitoring a news broadcast. Shall we put it through to your NST transceiver?”
Delamere turned to his senior radio officer. “That was quick work, Mr. Tamworthy.”
“We’ve been trying for some time, sir. Commander Grimes suggested it.”
“Commander Grimes—” Delamere made it sound like a particularly foul oath. Nonetheless, he walked to the NST set, the screen of which was now alive with a picture. Grimes followed him. It seemed to be the coverage of a wedding. There was the bride, tall and slim in white, on the arm of a man in the uniform of an airship captain, smiling directly at the camera. In the background were faces that Grimes recognized—Mavis, and Brabham, and Tangye, and the Paddington City Constable, and the president of the Air Pilots’ Guild, and Brandt. But he knew none of them as well as he did the bride.
“. . . the wedding of Miss Ellen Russell,” the news reader was saying, in that accent that Grimes, now, had no trouble in understanding, “to Skipper Benny Jones, of the airliner Flying Cloud. As you all know, Miss Russell—sorry, Mrs. Jones!—was paymaster o’ the Terry spaceship Discovery, but Commander Brabham has accepted her resignation so that she may become a citizen of our planet. Our first immigrant, folks, in one helluva of a long time.”
Local girl makes good, thought Grimes—and then his wry amusement abruptly faded. Vinegar Nell, no less than the other mutineers, was a criminal, and would be arrested, and tried, and would pay the penalty for her crime.
“Talkin’ of Discovery,” the news reader went on, “Commander Brabham has informed us that it would be unwise for him to attempt to send a message to his Base on Lindisfarne. Such a signal, he says, would be picked up and decoded by the monitors of the Empire of Waverley. He says that his instructions are to stay here until relieved. Unless he’s relieved soon his ship’ll be growing roots, an’ more of his crew will be followin’ the good example o’ the fair Miss Russell.”
There followed a shot of Discovery. This time she was not berthed in the middle of the Oval. Grimes recognized the site, however. It was in a field
to the west of the airport. The people of Paddington could hardly be expected to cancel their cricket fixtures a second time.
“There’s your precious ship, Commander,” sneered Delamere. “What a rustbucket!”
“Meanwhile—I hate ter have ter say it, but it’s true—not all of Discovery’s people are endearin’ themselves to us. Her Marines—who should have provided a guard of honor at the weddin’—are all in jail, even their commandin’ officer, Major Swinton. It seems they went on a bender last night. As luck would have it we had a camera crew at the Red Kangaroo, to get some shots o’ the new floor show there. There was a floor show all right—o’ the wrong kind.”
A picture of a large, garishly decorated room filled the screen. Seated around a big oval table were the Marines, including Swinton and Washington. The tabletop was covered with bottles and glasses. Swinton got unsteadily to his feet. “Where’s the music?” he bawled. “Where’s the dancing girls? We were told there’d be both in this dump!”
“We’ll provide our own, Major!” yelled one of his men. “Come on, now! All of yer!”
“We’re the hellhounds o’ the galaxy,
We’re the toughest ever seen!
Ain’t no one fit ter wipe the arse
Of an FSS Marine!”
“Gentlemen, please!” It was the manager, a thin, worried looking man. “The floor show’s about ter start.”
“Stuff yer floor show, an’ you with it!” The man who had started the singing swung viciously with his right, and the manager crumpled to the floor. Then half a dozen tough-looking waiters were converging on the scene. The Marines picked up bottles by their necks, smashed them on the edge of the table, held them like vicious, jagged daggers. The waiters hesitated, then snatched up chairs, not caring whom they spilled in the process. People were throwing things. A missile of some kind struck Swinton on the forehead, felling him. Someone yelled, “Get the Terry bastards!” Women screamed. The waiters, reinforced by customers, holding their chairs before them as a protection from the broken bottles, advanced in a rush.
It was then that the scene became chaotic—and blanked out abruptly. “That,” said the news reader, “was when some bastard put his boot through our camera. Over twenty of our people finished up in the hospital. The condition of the manager o’ the Red Roo is critical. An’ the Marines, bein’ behind bars, missed out on their charmin’ shipmate’s weddin’. “An’ that, folks, is all the news to date.”
“Disgusting,” said Delamere, somehow implying that it was all Grimes’s fault.
“Marines will be Marines,” said Grimes. “Not my Marines,” Delamere stated smugly. “What are they, then?” Grimes asked interestedly. Delamere ignored this. He said, “I anticipate no difficulties in rounding up this rabble of yours. And now, Mr. Adviser, what do you advise? Don’t bother to answer. I’ve already decided what I am going to do. I shall drop in, unannounced, just after dawn, local time. I shall land close to Discovery, covering her with my guns.”
“Discovery has guns too, you know,” remarked Grimes. “I shall have the advantage of surprise,” said Delamere. “I’ll blow her off the ground before my vanes kiss the dirt.”
“I thought,” said Grimes, “that your instructions were to put a prize crew aboard her and bring her back to Base. You’ll not be at all popular if you destroy such a large and expensive hunk of Federation property.”
Delamere considered this. He asked, reluctantly, at last, “Then what do you suggest, Commander?”
“Put Vega in orbit, one that keeps her always over the daylight hemisphere. That way she won’t be spotted visually. Get your artificers working on sonic insulation for the boats you’ll be using for the landing. Send your force down for a dawn landing, and then go and call on the mayor. She won’t like being called at such a godless time, but I think I’ll be able to smooth things over.”
“Too complicated,” said Delamere.
“Then what are your ideas on the subject?”
“One Falcon missile, with a Somnopon warhead. That should be ample for a city the size of Paddington. And then, while all the Paddingtonians and your mutineers are snoring their heads off, we land and take over.”
“You can’t do that!” exclaimed Grimes. “It will be an act of war.”
“Rubbish. Somnopon’s nonlethal.”
“Even at night,” said Grimes, “there are people up and about, doing various jobs. If they fall asleep, suddenly, there are bound to be casualties. Civilian casualties.”
“I think that Commander Grimes is right,” said Vega’s first lieutenant.
“You’re not paid to think, Lieutenant Commander Bissett.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Bissett said firmly, “but that is one of the things that I am paid for. High-handed action on our part will, inevitably, drive Botany Bay into the arms of Waverley.”
“Those colonists have never heard of the Empire of Waverley,” said Delamere stubbornly.
“You heard that news broadcast, sir. The Empire of Waverley was specifically mentioned. If you like, I’ll get Sparks to play the tape back.”
Delamere glared at his executive officer, and then at Grimes. He snarled, “All right, all right. Then please tell me, somebody, why I shouldn’t bring Vega down in broad daylight, with flags flying and brass bands playing? Or why I shouldn’t do the same as Grimes did before his first landing—announce it on the normal broadcast channels?”
“Because,” Grimes pointed out, “either course of action would give the mutineers ample warning. And if we have to fight a battle right over a major city we shall not endear ourselves to the inhabitants.”
“Commander Grimes is right,” said Bissett.
“I’m always right,” Grimes could not resist saying.
Chapter 41
After a long discussion, during which Delamere’s officers made useful suggestions—which is more than could be said for their captain—it was decided to send only one boat down for the initial landing. This was to be piloted by Grimes himself, accompanied by Major Briggs, Vega’s Marine officer, and six of his men. All of the Marines came either from Australia or from Australian colonies and, with a little practice, were able to speak with a fair approximation to the Botany Bay accent. All of the landing party wore civilian clothing—gaily patterned shirts, shorts, and sandals.
Vega’s artificers had made a good job of soundproofing the inertial drive of the boat. When the engine was run in neutral gear, in the confined space of the boat bay, the noise, which normally would have been deafening, was little more than an irritable mutter. And, as Grimes well knew, the Lost Colonists liked their sleep and it took a lot to rouse them from it, especially after a heavy night.
He felt almost happy as he maneuvered the little craft down through the atmosphere. It was good to have a command again, even if it was only a ship’s boat, especially after a passage in a vessel captained by Delamere. Once clear of the ship he had steered to a position over the night hemisphere, a little to the west of the terminator. Conditions were cloudless, and he could see, without any difficulty, the diffuse patch of soft light that was Paddington and, as he steadily lost altitude, the hard, bright, coded flash of the Macquarie Light. As he dropped toward it the picture formed on the radar screen, a chart drawn in pale-green luminescence—the northern coastline and the great, irregular bite out of it that was Port Jackson. Lower yet, and lower, and he could see the outlines of the finger jetties. He had decided to land in the southeastern corner of the harbor where several old hulks were moored, a marine junkyard.
Dawn was pale in the east when, at last, the boat dropped to the surface of the calm water with hardly a ripple. Grimes steered her toward the shadowy forms of the obsolete shipping, threading a cautious way between the looming dark hulls. There was, he remembered, a rickety little jetty just about here, used by work boats and the like. He came alongside it cautiously, opened the airlock doors. The Marines scrambled out onto the warped and weatherworn planking. Grimes followed. And then
, working as quietly as possible, they succeeded in pushing and pulling the boat under the jetty, squeezing her in, somehow, between the marine-growth-encrusted piles. She would not be found unless somebody were making a deliberate search for her.
Grimes led the way inland. There was just enough light—although it was growing stronger—for them to pick their way through the rusty tangle of obstacles: anchors, lengths of chain cable, a big, four-bladed propeller. One of the Marines swore as he stubbed his bare toe on some unseen obstruction. Then they came to a road leading down to the water’s edge, and the first, sleeping houses. The light of the gas street lamps was paling as the dawn brightened. Ahead of them, quite suddenly, the sun came up and, simultaneously, the lamps went out. Somewhere a dog was barking, and there was a brief and startling clamor overhead as a flock of birdlike things emerged from the trees, circled and assembled, then flew steadily toward the north on some unknown mission.
“It—it’s like time travel, sir,” whispered the Marine officer.
“What do you mean, Major?”
“This—this city. It’s like something out of Earth’s past. So . . . quiet. The way a morning should be, but hardly ever is. And these houses . . . nothing over three stories. And all the trees.”
“This is the way they wanted it,” said Grimes, “and this is the way they got it.”
It was not far to the mayor’s palace—a big, low structure, built in the long-dead (on Earth) colonial style. Grimes marched up to the front door, the gravel of the driveway grating under his sandals. The others followed him into the portico, the major looking with admiration at the graceful, cast-aluminum pillars with their ornate floral designs. He tapped one. He said, “Should be cast-iron, really, but aluminum’s more practical.”
“This isn’t a sight-seeing tour, Major Briggs,” Grimes told him. He added, “But I wish it were.”
First Command Page 47
