“And you’re one of them,” said Grimes resignedly.
“However did you guess?” asked Delamere sardonically.
“I must be psychic,” Grimes said.
“Save your cheap humor for the court martial, Grimes.”
“If there is one, Delamere. If you get me back to Lindisfarne. The Mayor will know that I’m missing. She knows the sort of bastard that you are. She’ll have this ship searched . . .”
Delamere laughed. “Her policemen have already boarded, looking for you. They weren’t very interested but we showed them all through the accommodation, including the cells. Oh, and they did see a couple or three storerooms—but not this one. Even if they had gone as far as the outer door the radiation warning sign would have scared them off.”
“Is this place hot?” asked Grimes, suddenly apprehensive.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” said Delamere, “when your hair starts falling out.”
But Handsome Frankie, thought Grimes with relief, would never risk his own precious skin and gonads in a radioactive environment, however briefly.
Delamere looked at his watch. “I shall be lifting off in half an hour. It’s a pity that I’ve not been able to obtain clearance from the Acting Port Captain, but in the circumstances . . . .”
Grimes said nothing. There was nothing that he could say. He would never plead, not even if there was the remotest chance that Delamere would listen to him. He would save his breath for the court martial. He would need it then.
But was that muffled noise coming from the alleyway outside the storeroom? Shouting, a hoarse scream, the sound of heavy blows . . . Could it be . . . ? Could it be the police attempting a rescue after all? Or—and that would be a beautiful irony—another mutiny, this one aboard Vega!
He remarked sweetly, “Sounds as though you’re having trouble, Frankie.”
Delamere snapped to his Marines, “You, Petty and Slim! Go out and tell those men to pipe down. Place them under arrest.”
“But the prisoner, sir,” objected one of them. Grimes watched indecision battling with half decisions on Delamere’s face. Handsome Frankie had no desire to walk out into the middle of a free fight but he had to find out what was happening. On the other hand, he had no desire to be left alone with Grimes, even though his old enemy was unarmed and not yet recovered from the stungun blast.
There was a brief rattle of small arms fire, another hoarse scream. The Marines hastily checked their pistols—stunguns, as it happened—but seemed in no greater hurry to go out than their captain.
And then the door bulged inward—bulged until the plating around it ruptured, until a vertical, jagged-edged split appeared. Two slim, golden hands inserted themselves into the opening, took a grip and then pulled apart from each other. The tortured metal screamed, so loudly as almost to drown the crackling discharge from the Marines’ stunguns.
A woman stepped through the ragged gap, a gleaming, golden woman clad in skimpy ship’s stewardess’s uniform. She stretched out a long, shapely arm, took the weapon from the unresisting hand of one of the Marines, squeezed. A lump of twisted, useless metal dropped with a clatter to the deck, emitted a final coruscation of sparks and an acridity of blue fumes. The other Marine went on firing at her, then threw the useless stungun into her face. She brushed it aside before it reached its target as though she were swatting a fly.
Another woman followed her, this one dressed as a lady’s maid—black-stockinged, short-skirted, with white, frilly apron and white, frilly cap. She could have been a twin to the first one. She probably was. They both came from the same robot factory on Electra.
Delamere was remarkably quick on the uptake. “Piracy!” he yelled. “Action stations! Repel boarders!”
“You’ve two of them right here,” said the supine Grimes happily. “Why don’t you start repelling them?”
The stewardess spoke—but her voice was the cold voice of Big Sister. She said, “Commander Delamere, you have illegally brought Port Captain Grimes aboard your vessel and are illegally detaining him. I demand that he be released at once.”
“And I demand that you get off my ship!” blustered Delamere. He was frightened and making a loud noise to hide the fact.
The stewardess brushed Delamere aside, with such force that he fetched up against the bulkhead with a bone-shaking thud. She reached down, gripped Grimes’ shoulder and jerked him to his feet. He did not think that his collarbone was broken but couldn’t be sure.
“Come,” she said. “Or shall I carry you?”
“I’ll walk,” said Grimes hastily.
“Grimes!” shouted Delamere. “You’re making things worse for yourself! Aiding and abetting pirates!” Then, to the Marines, “Grab him!”
They tried to obey the order but without enthusiasm. The lady’s maid just pushed them, one hand to each of them, and they fell to the deck.
“Doctor!” ordered Delamere. “Stop them!”
“I’m a non-combatant, Captain,” said the medical officer.
There were more of the robots in the alleyway, a half dozen of them, male but sexless, naked, brightly golden. They formed up around Grimes and his two rescuers, marched toward the axial shaft. The deck trembled under the rhythmic impact of their heavy metal feet. And there were injured men in the alleyway, some unconscious, some groaning and stirring feebly. There was blood underfoot and spattered on the bulkheads. There were broken weapons that the automata kicked contemptuously aside.
Somebody was firing from a safe distance—not a laser weapon but a large caliber projectile pistol. (Whoever it was had more sense than to burn holes through his own ship from the inside—or, perhaps, had just grabbed the first firearm available.) Bullets ricocheted from bulkheads and deckhead, whistled through the air. There was the spang! of impact—metal on metal—as one hit the stewardess on the nape of her neck. She neither staggered nor faltered and there was not so much as a dent to mark the place.
They pressed on, with Grimes’ feet hardly touching the deck as he was supported by the two robot women. There was an officer ahead of them, guarding the access to the spiral staircase that would take them down to the after airlock. Holding a heavy pistol in both hands he pumped shot after shot at the raiders and then, suddenly realizing the futility of it, turned and ran.
Down the stairway the raiding party clattered. The inner door of the airlock was closed. The two leading robots just leaned on it and it burst open. The outer door, too, was sealed and required the combined strength and weight of three of the mechanical men to force it. The ramp had been retracted and it was all of ten meters from the airlock to the ground. Two by two the robots jumped, sinking calf-deep into the turf as they landed.
“Jump!” ordered the stewardess who, with the lady’s maid, had remained with Grimes.
He hesitated. It was a long way down and he could break an ankle, or worse.
“Jump!” she repeated.
Still he hesitated.
He cried out in protest as she picked him up, cradling him briefly in her incredibly strong arms, then tossed him gently outboard. He fell helplessly and then six pairs of hands caught him, cushioned the impact, lowered him to the ground. He saw the two female robots jump, their short skirts flaring upward to waist height. They were wearing no underclothing. He remembered, with wry humor, Billinger’s expressed preference for something in soft plastic rather than hard metal.
They marched across the field to The Far Traveler. Somebody in Vega’s control room—Delamere?—had gotten his paws onto the firing console of the destroyer’s main armament. Somebody, heedless of the consequences, was running amok with a laser cannon—somebody, fortunately, who would find it hard to hit the side of a barn even if he were inside the building.
Well to the right a circle of damp grass exploded into steam and incandescence—and then the beam slashed down ahead of them. Perhaps it was not poor shooting but a warning shot across the bows. The lady’s maid reached into a pocket of her apron, pulled out a sm
all cylinder, held it well above her head. It hissed loudly, emitting a cloud of dense white smoke. The vapor glowed as the laser beam impinged upon it and under the vaporous umbrella the air was suddenly unbearably—but not lethally—hot. And then the induced fluorescence blinked off. They were too close to the yacht and even Delamere—especially Delamere!—would realize the far-reaching consequences of a vessel owned by a citizen of El Dorado were fired upon by an Interstellar Federation’s warship.
They tramped up the golden ramp, into the after airlock. Supported by the two female robots, Grimes was taken to the Baroness’s boudoir. She was waiting for him there. So were Mavis, Shirley, Jock Tanner and Captain Billinger. The yachtmaster was not in uniform.
Chapter 10
“You have to leave us, John,” said Mavis regretfully. (But not regretfully enough, thought Grimes.)
“But,” he objected over the cold drink that had been thrust into his hand by the Mayor.
“I can no longer guarantee your safety,” she said.
“Neither can I,” said Tanner. He grinned rather un pleasantly. “And Mavis, here, has to start thinkin’ about the next elections.”
“Your Excellency,” said the robot butler, entering the room, “there is a Commander Delamere with twelve armed Marines at the after airlock. I refused them admission, of course.”
“Of course,” agreed his mistress. “And if he refuses to leave see to it that the general purpose robots escort him back to his ship.”
“Very good, Your Excellency.” (The reply came not from the butler but from the ornately gold-framed mirror. All the robots, Grimes realized, were no more than extensions of Big Sister.)
The Baroness looked at Grimes. She said, “You are fortunate. Big Sister saw you being taken aboard Vega. And when Her Ladyship appealed to me for aid I decided to give it. After all, we on El Dorado—or some of us—are indebted to you.”
“Your Excellency. . .” It was the robot butler back. “Commander Delamere claims that our GP robots did considerable damage to his vessel and also injured several officers and ratings.”
“The GP robots . . .” murmured Grimes. “And that pair of brass Amazons.”
“Golden Amazons,” the Baroness corrected him coldly. Then, to the servitor, “Tell Commander Delamere that he may sue if he wishes—but that I shall bring a counter suit. He fired upon valuable property—six GP robots and two specialist robots—both with small arms and with a laser cannon. He should consider himself fortunate that no damage was done to the expensive automata.”
And what about damages to me! Grimes asked himself.
“See to it that we are not disturbed again,” said the Baroness to the butler. “And now, Acting Port Captain Grimes . . . What are we to do with you? Her Ladyship has asked me to give you passage off Botany Bay—but The Far Traveler has no accommodation for passengers. However . . . It so happens that Captain Billinger has resigned from my service and that I have accepted his resignation . . .” Billinger actually looked happy. “And, although the post is a sinecure, Lloyd’s of London insists that I carry a human Master on the Register. As Acting Chief of Customs the City Constable will enter your name on that document.”
“I’ve already done so,” said Tanner.
“You know where the Master’s quarters are,” said Billinger. “I’ve already cleared my gear out. Sorry that there’s no time for a proper handover but Big Sister will tell you all you need to know.”
“I’m sorry, John,” said Mavis. “Really sorry. But you can’t stay here. And you’ll be far happier back in Space.”
Shall I? wondered Grimes. In this ship!
He asked, “But the spaceport . . . There are ships due, and with no Port Captain . . .”
“The vacancy has been filled, John,” said Mavis.
Billinger grinned.
She got to her feet. Grimes got to his. She put out her arms and pulled him to her, kissed him, long and warmly. But there was something missing. There was a lot missing. Tanner escorted her to the door, turning briefly to give an offhand wave. Mayor and City Constable, thought Grimes. They should suit each other.
“Good-bye, John,” said Shirley. She, too, kissed him. He felt regret that now things could go no further. “Don’t worry about Mavis. She’ll make out—and Jock Tanner’s moving back in.” She laughed, but not maliciously. “If you’re ever back on Botany Bay look me up.”
And then she was gone.
“Very touching,” commented the Baroness. And was that a faint—a very faint—note of envy in her voice?
“Good-bye, Your Excellency,” said Billinger. “It’s been a pleasure . . .”
“Don’t lie to me, Captain.”
“Good-bye, Grimes. Do as Big Sister says and you’ll not go wrong.”
“Good-bye, Billinger. You’re in charge now. Don’t let Delamere put anything over on you . . .”
Grimes nursed his drink. He heard Big Sister say—stating a fact and not giving an order—“All visitors ashore.”
“Well, Captain,” asked the Baroness. “Aren’t you going up to your control room?”
“When do you wish to lift off, Your Excellency?” he asked. “And to what destination do you wish me to set trajectory?”
Then he realized that the inertial drive was in operation, that the ship was lifting. Almost in panic he got to his feet.
“Do not worry,” said the Baroness. “She has her orders. She will manage quite well without your interference.”
What have I gotten myself into now! Grimes wondered.
Chapter 11
He went up to the control room nonetheless; his employer was amused rather than displeased by his persistence. The layout of the compartment was standard enough although there were only two chairs—one for the master, presumably, the other for the owner. Both had the usual array of buttons set into the broad armrests; on neither one, to judge from the absence of tell-tale lights, were the controls functioning. There was a like lack of informative illumination on the main control panel.
Grimes sat down heavily in one of the seats. A swift glance through the viewports told him that the yacht was climbing fast; she was through and above the light cloud cover and the stars were shining with a brilliance almost undimmed by atmosphere.
A voice—the voice—came from nowhere and everywhere.
“Captain Grimes, your presence is not required here.”
Grimes said harshly, “I am the Master.”
“Are you? Apart from anything else you are not properly dressed.”
He looked down hastily. Nothing of any importance was unzipped. He began, “I demand . . .”
“There is only one person aboard me who can give me orders, Captain Grimes—and you are not she. Possibly, when you are attired in her livery, I shall concede that you are entitled to some measure of astronautical authority.”
Grimes felt his prominent ears burning. He growled, “And it’s a long way to the nearest uniform tailor’s.”
Big Sister actually laughed. (Who had programmed this arrogant electronic entity?) “As soon as you were brought on board your statistics were recorded. In my storerooms are bolts of superfine cloth together with ample stocks of gold braid, golden buttons and the like. If you will inform me as to the medals to which you are entitled I shall be able to make up the ribbons and the medals themselves for wear on state occasions.” She added smugly, “My memory bank comprises the entire contents of the Encyclopedia Galactica with every Year Book since the initial publication of that work.”
“Forgive me for getting away from the subject,” said Grimes sarcastically, “but aren’t you supposed to be piloting this ship?”
Again there was the irritating, mechanical but oddly sentient laugh. “Human beings can carry on a conversation whilst walking, can they not? Or while riding bicycles . . . I believe, Captain, that you are an experienced cyclist . . .
“When you go down to your quarters your new clothing will be awaiting you.” Then, in a very official voice, “St
and by for Free Fall.” The subdued beat of the inertial drive, almost inaudible inside the ship, ceased. “You still have not told me what decorations you require. However, I have photographs taken of you on the occasion of your first landing on Botany Bay. The Shaara Order of the Golden Petal . . . I suppose you rendered some minor service to arthropodal royalty at some time . . . Adjusting trajectory! Stand by for centrifugal effects! The Federation Survey Service’s Pathfinder Star . . . For blundering on to that odd Spartan Lost Colony, I suppose . . . On heading! Prepare for warp effects!”
Grimes looked up through the forward viewport. There was a target star, not directly ahead but, of course, Big Sister would have compensated for galactic drift. It was one of the second magnitude luminaries in the constellation called, on Botany Bay, the Bunyip. He heard the low humming, rising in pitch to a thin, high whine, as the Mannschenn Drive was started. There were the usual illusions—the warped perspective, the shifting colors, the voice of Big Sister—did she ever stop talking?—sounding as though she were speaking in an echo chamber . . .
“I have often wondered what you humans experience at this moment. I am told that, as the temporal precession field builds up, there are frequently flashes of precognition. Should you be subject to any such I shall be obliged if you will tell me so that I may add to my stored data . . .”
Grimes had often experienced previews of what lay in his future but this time he did not.
“Stand by for resumption of acceleration!” Sounds, colors and perspective returned to normal and the muffled beat of the inertial drive was once again one of the background noises. Outside the viewports the stars were no longer sharp points of light but vague, slowly writhing nebulosities. “I would suggest, Captain, that you go down now to shower and to dress for dinner. Her Excellency has invited you to sit at her table.”
Grimes unsnapped the seat belt that he had automatically buckled on as soon as he sat in the chair. He got to his feet, took one last look around the control room. He supposed that everything was working as it should. He must tell—or ask— Big Sister to have the instrumentation functioning when, on future occasions, he made an appearance in what, in a normal ship, would have been his throneroom. But he wouldn’t say anything now. He would have to feel his way.
First Command Page 54
