Somehow the buttons of her uniform shirt had come undone, and her nipples were taut against Grimes’ bare chest. Somehow her shorts had been peeled away from her hips—unzippered by whom? and how?—and somehow Grimes’ own garments were no longer the last barrier between them.
He was familiar enough with female nudity; he was one of the great majority who frequented the naked beaches in preference to those upon which bathing costumes were compulsory. He knew what a naked woman looked like—but this was different. It was not the first time that he had kissed a woman—but it was the first time that he had kissed, and been kissed by, an unclothed one. It was the first time that he had been alone with one.
What was happening he had read about often enough—and, like most young men, he had seen his share of pornographic films. But this was different. This was happening to him.
And for the first time.
When it was over, when, still clasped in each others’ arms they drifted in the center of the little cabin, impelled there by some odd resultant of forces, their discarded clothing drifting with them, veiling their perspiration-moist bodies, Grimes was reluctant to let her go.
Gently, Jane tried to disengage herself.
She whispered, “That was a warmer goodbye that I intended. But I’m not sorry. No. I’m not sorry . . . .”
Then, barely audibly, “It was the first time for you, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m all the more glad it happened. But this is goodbye.”
“No.”
“Don’t be a fool, John. You can’t keep me here.”
“But I can come with you.”
She pushed him from her. Somehow he landed back on the bed. Before he could bounce he automatically snapped one of the confining straps about his middle. Somehow—she was still wearing her sandals but nothing else—she finished up standing on the deck, held there by the contact between the magnetic soles and the ferrous fibers in the padding. She put out a long, graceful arm and caught her shirt. She said harshly, “I’m getting dressed and out of here. You stay put. Damn you, Grimes, for thinking that I was trying to lure you aboard the Sexy Eppy with the body beautiful. I told you before that I am not, repeat not, Olga Popovsky, the Beautiful Spy. And I’m not a prostitute. There’s one thing I wouldn’t sell if I were offered the services of the finest Gunnery Officer (which you aren’t), in the whole bloody Galaxy in payment!”
“You’re beautiful when you flare up like that,” said Grimes sincerely. “But you’re always beautiful.” Then, in a louder voice, “Jane, I love you.”
“Puppy love,” she sneered. “And I’m old enough to be your . . .” A faint smile softened her mouth. “Your maiden aunt.”
“Let me finish. All right, it’s only puppy love—you say. But it’s still love. But”—he was extemporizing—convincingly, he hoped—“but my real reason for wanting to come with you is this. I can appreciate now what Captain Craven lost when Epsilon Sextans was pirated. I can see—I can feel—why he’s willing to risk his life and his career to get his revenge. And I think that it’s worth it. And I want to help him.”
She stood there, her shirt half on, eying him suspiciously. “You mean that? You really mean that?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re a liar, Grimes.”
“No,” he said slowly. “No. Not altogether. I want to help the Old Man—and I want to help you. This piracy has convinced me that you Rim Worlders are getting the dirty end of the stick. I may not be the finest Gunnery Officer in the whole Galaxy—but I’m better acquainted with the new stuff than Captain Craven is.”
Her grin was openly derisive. “First it’s fellow-feeling for another spaceman, then it’s international politics. What next?”
“Where we started. I do love you, Jane. And if there’s going to be any shooting, I want to be on hand to do the shooting back on your behalf. I’ll admit that . . . that what’s happened has influenced my decision. But you didn’t buy me, or bribe me. Don’t think that. Don’t ever think that.” There was a note of pleading in his voice. “Be realistic, Jane. With another officer along, especially an officer with recent gunnery training, you stand a damn sight better chance than you would otherwise.”
“I . . . I suppose so. But I still don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to. But why look a gift horse in the mouth?”
“All right. You win. Get your clothes on and come and see the Old Man.”
11
JANE PENTECOST led Grimes to the airlock. The ship seemed oddly deserted, and he remarked on this. The girl explained that the passengers had been requested to remain in their accommodations, and that most of Delta Orionis’ personnel were employed in work aboard Epsilon Sextans.
“ So I haven’t been the only one to be kept under lock and key,” commented Grimes sardonically.
“You’re the only one,” retorted the girl, “who’s been compensated for his imprisonment.”
There was no answer to that, so the Ensign remained silent. Saying nothing, he inspected with interest the temporary tunnel that had been rigged between the airlocks of the two ships. So Epsilon Sextans’ pressure hull had been made good, her atmosphere restored. That meant that the work of installing the armament had been completed. He hoped that he would not have to insist upon modifications.
The wreck—although she was a wreck no longer—bore her scars. The worst damage had been repaired, but holes and slashes that did not impair her structural strength were untouched, and spatters of once molten metal still made crazy patterns on beams and frames, stanchions and bulkheads. And there were the scars made by Craven’s engineers—the raw, bright cicatrices of new welding.
Forward they made their way, deck after deck. The elevator in the axial shaft was not yet working, so Grimes had time and opportunity to appreciate the extent of the damage. They passed through the wreckage of the “farm”—the burst algae tanks, the ruptured vats in which yeast and tissue cultures were black and dead, frostbitten and dehydrated. They brushed through alleyways choked with the brittle fronds of creeping plants killed by the ultimate winter.
And then they were passing through the accommodation levels. Bulkheads had been slashed through, destroying the privacy of the cabins that they had once enclosed. Destroying the privacy—and the occupants. There were no longer any bodies; for this Grimes was deeply thankful. (He learned later that Craven’s first action had been to order and conduct a funeral service.) There were no bodies—but there were still stains. Men and women die quickly in hard vacuum—quickly and messily.
Captain Craven was alone in the Control Room. He was working, rather slowly and clumsily, wiring up an obviously makeshift panel that was additional to the original one installed before the Master’s acceleration chair. It was obvious what it was—the remote controls for the newly fitted weaponry. Grimes said quickly, “There’s no need for that, sir.”
Craven started, let go of his screwdriver, made a fumbling grab for it as it drifted away from him. He stared at Grimes, then growled, “So it’s you, is it?” Then, to Jane, “What the hell do you mean by letting this puppy out of his kennel?”
“Captain Craven,” she told him quietly, “Mr. Grimes wants to come with us.”
“What? I warn you, Miss Pentecost, I’m in no mood for silly jokes.”
“This is not a silly joke, Captain,” said Grimes. “I’ve had time to think things over. I feel, I really feel that you have a far better chance if there’s a qualified officer along to handle the gunnery.”
Craven looked at them, from the girl to Grimes, then back again. He said, “Ensign, didn’t I warn you?”
“It’s not that way at all, sir,” Grimes told him, flushing. “In fact, Miss Pentecost has been trying hard to dissuade me.”
“Oh?”
“It’s true,” said Jane. “But he told me that we couldn’t afford to look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“I don’t know what’s been happening,” rasped Craven. “
I don’t want to know what’s been happening between the pair of you. This change of mind, this change of heart is rather . . . sudden. No matter. One volunteer, they say, is worth ten pressed men.” He glared coldly at the Ensign. “And you volunteer?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“I believe you. I have no choice in the matter. But you realize the consequences?”
“I do.”
“Well, I may be able to do something to clear your yardarm. I’ve still to make my last entries in the Official Log of Delta Orionis, before I hand over to Captain Kennedy. And when it comes to such documentation, nobody cares to accuse a shipmaster of being a liar. Not out loud.” He paused, thinking. “How does this sound, Miss Pentecost? Date, Time, Position, etc., etc. Mr. John Grimes, passenger, holding the rank of Ensign in the Federation Survey Service, removed by force from this vessel to Epsilon Sextans, there to supervise the installation and mounting of the armament, Survey Service property, discharged on my orders from No. 1 hold, also to advise upon the use of same in the subsequent event of an action’s being fought. Signed, etc., etc. And witnessed.”
“Rather long-winded, sir. But it seems to cover the ground.”
“I intend to do more than advise!” flared Grimes.
“Pipe down. Or, if you must say it, make sure that there aren’t any witnesses around when you say it. Now, when it comes to the original supervision, you see what I’m trying to do. Will it work?”
“After a fashion, sir. But it will work much better if the fire control panel is entirely separate from maneuvering control.”
“You don’t think that I could handle both at once?”
“You could. But not with optimum efficiency. No humanoid could. This setup of yours might just work if we were Shaara, or any of the other multi-limbed arthropods. But even the Shaara, in their warships, don’t expect the Queen-Captain to handle her ship and her guns simultaneously.”
“You’re the expert. I just want to be sure that you’re prepared to, quote, advise, unquote, with your little pink paws on the actual keyboard of your battle organ.”
“That’s just the way that I propose to advise.”
“Good. Fix it up to suit yourself, then. I should be able to let you have a mechanic shortly to give you a hand.”
“Before we go any further, sir, I’d like to make an inspection of the weapons themselves. Just in case . . .”
“Just in case I’ve made some fantastic bollix, eh?” Craven was almost cheerful. “Very good. But try to make it snappy. It’s time we were on our way.”
“Yes,” said Jane, and it seemed that the Captain’s discarded somberness was hanging about her like a cloud. “It’s time.”
12
AT ONE TIME, before differentiation between the mercantile and the fighting vessel became pronounced, merchant vessels were built to carry a quite considerable armament. Today, the mounting of weapons on a merchantman presents its problems. After his tour of inspection Grimes was obliged to admit that Captain Craven had made cunning use of whatever spaces were available— but Craven, of course, was a very experienced officer, with long years of service in all classes of spacecraft. Too—and, perhaps, luckily—there had been no cannon among the Survey Service ordnance that had been requisitioned, so recoil had not been among the problems.
When he was finished, Grimes returned to the Control Room. Craven was still there, and with him was Jane Pentecost. They had, obviously, been discussing something. They could, perhaps, have been quarreling; the girl’s face was flushed and her expression sullen.
“Yes?” snapped the Captain.
“You’ve done a good job, sir. She’s no cruiser, but she should be able to defend herself.”
“Thank you. Then we’ll be on our way.”
“Not so fast, sir. I’d like to wire up my control panel properly before we shove off.”
Craven laughed. “You’ll have time, Mr. Grimes. I still have a few last duties to discharge aboard Delta Orionis. But be as quick as you can.”
He left the compartment, followed by Jane Pentecost. She said, over her shoulder, “I’ll send Mr. Baxter to help you, John.”
The Rim Worlder must have been somewhere handy; in a matter of seconds he was by Grimes’ side, an already open tool satchel at his belt. As he worked, assisting deftly and then taking over as soon as he was sure of what was required, he talked. He said, “Mum wanted to come along, but I soon put the damper on that. But I was bloody amazed to find you here.”
“Were you?” asked Grimes coldly.
“You bet I was. Never thought you were cut out to be a bloody pirate.” He cursed briefly as a spatter of hot metal from his sizzling soldering iron stung his hand. “A cold weld’d be better, but it’d take too much time. But where was I? Oh, yes. The shock to me system when I saw you comin’ aboard this wagon.”
“I have my quite valid reasons,” Grimes told him stiffly.
“You’re tellin’ me. Just as my missus had quite valid reasons for wantin’ to come with me. But she ain’t a gunnery expert.” He added piously, “Thank Gawd.”
“And I am one,” said the Ensign, trying to change the drift of the conversation before he lost his temper. “Yes. that’s right. Just stick to the color code. The blue wiring’s the ALGE . . .”
“I know,” Baxter told him. “Tell me, is it any good?”
“Yes. Of course, if an enemy held us in her beams for any prolonged period we should all be cooked, but as far as it goes it’s effective enough.”
“Hope you’re right.” He made the last connections, then replaced the panel on the open shallow box. “Here’s yer magic cabinet, Professor. All we have ter see now is what rabbits yer can pull outer the hat.”
“Plenty, I hope,” said Captain Craven, who had returned to Control. “And are you ready now, Mr. Grimes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Then we’ll make it stations. If you will take the copilot’s chair, while Mr. Baxter goes along to look after his rockets.”
“Will do, Skipper,” said the engineer, packing away his tools as he pulled himself toward the exit hatch.
The ship’s intercom came to life, in Jane Pentecost’s voice. “Connection between vessels severed. Airlock door closed.”
“We’re still connected,” grumbled Craven. “Delia O’Ryan still has her magnetic grapnels out.” He spoke into the transceiver microphone: “Epsilon Sextans to Delta Orionis. Cast off, please. Over.”
“Delta Orionis to Epsilon Sextans. Casting off.” Through a viewport Grimes could see one of the bright mooring wires snaking back into its recess. “All clear, Captain.”
“Thank you, Captain Kennedy.” And in a softer voice, “And I hope you keep that handle to your name, Bill.”
“Thank you, sir. And all the best, Captain, from all of us, to all of you. And good hunting.”
“Thanks. And look after the old Delia, Captain. And yourself. Over—and out.”
“Delta Orionis to Epsilon Sextans. Over and out.”
(There was something very final, thought Grimes, about those outs.)
He was aware that the ships were drifting slowly apart. Now he could see all of Delta Orionis from his viewport. He could not help recalling the day on which he had first seen her, at the Woomera spaceport. So much had happened since that day. (And so much was still to happen—he hoped.) He heard Craven say into the intercom, “Stand by for temporal precession. We’re desynchronizing.” Then, there was the giddiness, and the off-beat whine of the Mannschenn Drive that pierced his eardrums painfully, and beyond the viewports the great, shining shape of the other ship shimmered eerily and was suddenly warped into the likeness of a monstrous Klein flash—then vanished. Where she had been (where she still was, in space but not in time) shone the distant stars, the stars that in this distorted continuum were pulsing spirals of iridescence.
“Mannschenn Drive. Cut!”
The thin, high keening died abruptly. Outside, the stars were glittering points of light, piercin
gly bright against the blackness.
“Mr. Grimes!” Craven’s voice was sharp. “I hope that you take more interest in gunnery than you do in ship handling. In case it has escaped your notice, I would remind you that you are second in command of this vessel, and in full charge in the event of my demise.”
“Sorry, sir,” stammered Grimes. Then, suddenly bold, “But I’m not your second in command, sir. I’ve signed no Articles.”
Surprisingly, Craven laughed. “A spacelawyer, yet! Well, Mr. Grimes, as soon as we get this vessel on course we’ll attend to the legal formalities. Meanwhile, may I request your close attention to what I am doing?”
“You may, sir.”
Thereafter he watched and listened carefully. He admired the skill with which Craven turned the ship on her directional gyroscopes until the red-glowing target star was centered exactly in the cartwheel sight. He noted that the Captain used his reaction drive at a longer period and at a higher rate of acceleration than usual, and said as much. He was told, the words falling slowly and heavily in the pseudo-gravity, “They . . . will . . . expect . . . us . . . to . . . be . . . in . . . a . . . hurry. We must . . . not . . . disappoint . . . them.”
Speed built up, fast—but it was a velocity that, in the context of the interstellar distances to be traversed, was no more than a snail’s crawl. Then—and the sudden silence was like a physical blow—the thunder of the rockets ceased. The screaming roar had died, but the ship was not quiet. The whine of the Mannschenn Drive pervaded her every compartment, vibrated through every member of her structure. She was falling, falling through space and time, plunging through the warped continuum to her rendezvous with Death. . . .
To the Galactic Rim: The John Grimes Saga Page 6
