“Not as strongly as here. I can almost put it into words . . . The First Ones let us alone.”
“Mphm,” grunted Grimes. “Makes sense, I suppose. The original colonists, with only the resources of Lode Jumbuk to draw upon, couldn’t have made much of an impression. But when they had all the resources of the Federation to draw upon . . .”
“I don’t think it’s quite that way . . . “ murmured Deane doubtfully.
“Then what do you think?”
“I . . . I don’t know Captain . . .”
But they had little further opportunity for private talk. Slowly at first, and then more rapidly, the coachload of assorted passengers was thawing out. The driver initiated this process—he was, Grimes realized, almost like the captain of a ship, responsible for the well-being, psychological as well as physical, of his personnel. Using a fixed microphone by his seat he delivered commentaries on the places of interest that they passed, and, when he judged that the time was ripe, had another microphone on a wandering lead passed among the passengers, the drill being that each would introduce himself by name, profession and place of residence.
Yes, they were a mixed bag, these tourists. About half of them were from Earth—they must be, thought Grimes, from the TG Clipper Cutty Sark presently berthed at the spaceport. Public Servants, lawyers, the inevitable Instructors from universities, both major and minor, improving their knowledge of the worlds of the Federation in a relatively inexpensive way. The Olganans were similarly diversified.
When it came to Grimes’s turn he said, “John Grimes, spaceman. Last place of permanent residence St. Helier, Channel Islands, Earth.”
Tanya Lancaster, the young and prettier of the two teachers across the aisle, turned to him. “I thought you were a Terry, John. You don’t mind my using your given name, do you? It’s supposed to be one of the rules on this tour . . .”
“I like it, Tanya.”
“That’s good. But you can’t be from the Cutty Sark. I should know all the officers, at least by sight, by this time.”
“And if I were one of Cutty Sark’s officers,” said Grimes gallantly (after all, this Tanya wench was not at all bad looking, with her chestnut hair, green eyes and thin, intelligent face), “I should have known you by this time.”
“Oh,” she said, “you must be from the Base.”
“Almost right.”
“You are making things awkward. Ah, I have it. You’re from that funny little destroyer or whatever it is that’s berthed at the Survey Service’s end of the spaceport.”
“She’s not a funny little destroyer,” Grimes told her stiffly. “She’s a Serpent Class Courier.”
The girl laughed. “And she’s yours. Yes, I overheard your friend calling you ‘Captain’ . . .”
“Yes. She’s mine . . .”
“And now, folks,” boomed the driver’s amplified voice, “how about a little singsong to liven things up? Any volunteers?”
The microphone was passed along to a group of young Olganan students. After a brief consultation they burst into song.
“When the jolly Jumbuk lifted from Port Woomera
Out and away for Altair Three
Glad were we all to kiss the tired old Earth good-bye—
Who’ll come a-sailing in Jumbuk with me?
Sailing in Jumbuk, sailing in Jumbuk,
Who’ll come a-sailing in Jumbuk with me?
Glad were we all to kiss the tired old Earth good-bye—
You’ll come a-sailing in Jumbuk with me!
Then there was Storm, the Pile and all the engines dead—
Blown out to Hell and gone were we!
Lost in the Galaxy, falling free in sweet damn all—
Who’ll come a-sailing Jumbuk with me?
Sailing in Jumbuk, sailing in Jumbuk,
Who’ll come a-sailing in Jumbuk with me?
Lost in the Galaxy, falling free in sweet damn all—
You’ll come a-sailing in Jumbuk with me!
Up jumped the Captain, shouted for his Engineer,
‘Start me the diesels, one, two, three!
Give me the power to feed into the Ehrenhafts—
You’ll come a-sailing in Jumbuk with me!’”
“But that’s ours!” declared Tanya indignantly, her Australian accent suddenly very obvious. “It’s our Waltzing Matilda!”
“Waltzing Matilda never was yours,” Grimes told her. “The words—yes, but the tune, no. Like many another song it’s always having new verses tacked on to it.”
“I suppose you’re right. But these comic lyrics of theirs—what are they all about?”
“You’ve heard of the Ehrenhaft Drive, haven’t you?”
“The first FTL Drive, wasn’t it?”
“I suppose you could call it that. The Ehrenhaft generators converted the ship, the lodejammer, into what was, in effect, a huge magnetic particle. As long as she was on the right tramlines, the right line of magnetic force, she got to where she was supposed to get to in a relatively short time. But a magnetic storm, tangling the lines of force like a bowl of spaghetti, would throw her anywhere—or nowhere. And these storms also drained the micropile of all energy. In such circumstances, all that could be done was to start up the emergency diesel generators, to supply electric power to the Ehrenhaft generators. After this the ship would stooge along hopefully, trying to find a habitable planet before the fuel ran out . . .”
“H’m.” She grinned suddenly. “I suppose it’s more worthy of being immortalized in a song than our sheep-stealing Jolly Swagman. But I still prefer the original.” And then aided by her friend, Moira Stevens—a fat and cheerful young woman—she sang what she still claimed was the original version. Grimes allowed himself to wonder what the ghost of the Jolly Swagman—still, presumably, haunting that faraway billabong—would have made of it all. . . .
That night they reached the first of their camping sites, a clearing in the bush, on the banks of a river that was little more than a trickle, but with quite adequate toilet facilities in plastic huts. The coach crew—there was a cook as well as the driver—laid out the pneumatic pup tents in three neat rows, swiftly inflated them with a hose from the coach’s air compressor. Wood was collected for a fire, and folding grills laid across it. “The inevitable steak and billy tea,” muttered somebody who had been on the tour before. “It’s always steak and billy tea . . .”
But the food, although plain, was good, and the yarning around the fire was enjoyable and, finally, Grimes found that the air mattress in his tent was at least as comfortable as his bunk aboard Adder. He slept well, and awoke refreshed to the sound of the taped Reveille. He was among the first in the queue for the toilet facilities and, dressed and ready for what the day might bring, lined up for his eggs and bacon and mug of tea with a good appetite. Then there was the washing up, the deflation of mattresses and tents, the stowing away of these and the baggage—and, very shortly after the bright sun had appeared over the low hills to the eastward, the tour was on its way again.
On they drove, and on, through drought-stricken land that showed few signs of human occupancy, that was old, old long before the coming of Man. Through sun-parched plains they drove, where scrawny cattle foraged listlessly for scraps of sun-dried grass, where tumbleweed scurried across the roadway, where dust-devils raised their whirling columns of sand and light debris. But there was life, apart from the thirsty cattle, apart from the grey scrub that, with the first rains of the wet season, would put forth its brief, vivid greenery, its short-lived gaudy flowers. Once the coach stopped to let a herd of sausagekine across the track—low-slung, furry quadrupeds, wriggling like huge lizards on their almost rudimentary legs. There was a great clicking of cameras. “We’re lucky, folks,” said the driver. “These beasts are almost extinct. They were classed as pests until only a couple of years ago—now they’ve been reclassed as protected fauna . . .” They rolled past an aboriginal encampment where gaunt, black figures, looking arachnoid rather than humanoid, stood
immobile about their cooking fires. “Bad bastards those,” announced the driver. “Most of the others will put on shows for us, will sell us curios—but not that tribe . . .”
Now and again there were other vehicles—diesel-engined tourist coaches like their own, large and small hovercraft and, in the cloudless sky, the occasional high-flying inertial drive aircraft. But, in the main, the land was empty, the long, straight road seeming to stretch to infinity ahead of them and behind them. The little settlements—pub, general store and a huddle of other buildings—were welcome every time that one was reached. There was a great consumption of cold beer at each stop, conversations with the locals, who gathered as though by magic, at each halt. There were the coach parks—concentration camps in the desert rather than oases, but with much appreciated hot showers and facilities for washing clothing.
On they drove, and on, and Grimes and Deane teamed up with Tanya and Moira. But there was no sharing of tents. The rather disgruntled Grimes gained the impression that the girl’s mother had told her, at an early age, to beware of spacemen. Come to that, after the first two nights there were no tents. Now that they were in regions where it was certain that no rain would fall all hands slept in their sleeping bags only, under the stars.
And then they came to the Cragge Rock reserve. “Cragge Rock,” said the driver into his microphone, “is named after Captain Cragge, Master of the Lode Jumbuk, just as the planet itself is named after his wife, Olga.” He paused. “Perhaps somewhere in the Galaxy there’s a mountain that will be called Grimes Rock—but with all due respect to the distinguished spaceman in our midst he’ll have to try hard to find the equal to Cragge Rock! The Rock, folks is the largest monolith in the known Universe—just a solid hunk of granite. Five miles long, a mile across, half a mile high.” He turned his attention to Tanya and Moira. “Bigger than your Ayers Rock, ladies!” He paused again for the slight outburst of chuckles. “And to the north, sixty miles distant, there’s Mount Conway, a typical mesa. Twenty miles to the south there’s Mount Sarah, named after Chief Officer Conway’s wife. It’s usually called ‘the Sallies,’ as it consists of five separate domes of red conglomerate. So you see that geologically Cragge Rock doesn’t fit in. There’re quite a few theories, folks. One is that there was a submarine volcanic eruption when this was all part of the ocean bed. The Rock was an extrusion of molten matter from the core of the planet. It has been further shaped by millions of years of erosion since the sea floor was lifted to become this island continent.”
As he spoke, the Rock was lifting over the otherwise featureless horizon. It squatted there on the skyline, glowering red in the almost level rays of the westering sun, an enormous crimson slug. It possessed beauty of a sort—but the overall impression was one of strength.
“We spend five full days here, folks,” went on the driver. “There’s a hotel, and there’s an aboo settlement, and most of the boos speak English. They’ll be happy to tell you their legends about the Rock—Wuluru they call it. It’s one of their sacred places, but they don’t mind us coming here as long as we pay for the privilege. That, of course, is all taken care of by the Tourist Bureau, but if you want any curios you’ll have to fork out for them. See the way that the Rock’s changing color as the sun gets lower? And once the sun’s down it’ll slowly fade like a dying ember. . . .”
The Rock was close now, towering above them, a red wall against the darkening blue of the cloudless sky. Then they were in its shadow, and the sheer granite wall was purple, shading to cold blue . . . Sunlight again, like a sudden blow, and a last circuit of the time-pocked monolith, and a final stop on the eastern side of the stone mountain.
They got out of the coach, stood there, shivering a little, in the still, chilly air. “It has something. . . .” whispered Tanya Lancaster.
“It has something . . .” agreed Moira Stevens.
“Ancestral memory?” asked Deane, with unusual sharpness.
“You’re prying!” snapped the fat girl.
“I’m not, Moira. But I couldn’t help picking up the strong emanation from your minds.”
Tanya laughed. “Like most modern Australians we’re a mixed lot—and, in our fully integrated society, most of us have some aboriginal blood. But . . . Why should Moira and I feel so at home here, both at home and hopelessly lost?”
“If you let me probe . . .” suggested Deane gently.
“No,” flared the girl. “No!”
Grimes sympathized with her. He knew, all too well, what it is like to have a trained telepath, no matter how high his ethical standards, around. But he said, “Spooky’s to be trusted. I know.”
“You might trust him, John. I don’t know him well enough.”
“He knows us too bloody well!” growled Moira.
“I smell steak,” said Grimes, changing the subject.
The four of them walked to the open fire, where the evening meal was already cooking.
Dawn on the Rock was worth waking up early for. Grimes stood with the others, blanket-wrapped against the cold, and watched the great hulk flush gradually from blue to purple, from purple to pink. Over it and beyond it the sky was black, the stars very bright, almost as bright as in airless Space. Then the sun was up, and the Rock stood there, a red island in the sea of tawny sand, a surf of green brush breaking about its base. The show was over. The party went to the showers and toilets and then, dressed, assembled for breakfast.
After the meal they walked from the encampment to the Rock. Tanya and Moira stayed in the company of Grimes and Deane, but their manner towards the two spacemen was distinctly chilly; they were more interested in their guidebooks than in conversation. On their way they passed the aboriginal village. A huddle of crude shelters it was, constructed of natural materials and battered sheets of plastic. Fires were burning, and gobbets of unidentifiable meat were cooking over them. Women—naked, with straggling hair and pendulous breasts, yet human enough—looked up and around at the well-clothed, well-fed tourists with an odd, sly mixture of timidity and boldness. One of them pointed to a leveled camera and screamed, “First gibbit half dollar!”
“You’d better,” advised the driver. “Very commercial minded, these people . . .”
Men were emerging from the primitive huts. One of them approached Grimes and his companions, his teeth startlingly white in his coal-black face. He was holding what looked like a crucifix. “Very good,” he said, waving it in front of him. “Two dollar.”
“I’m not religious . . .” Grimes began, to be cut short by Tanya’s laugh.
“Don’t be a fool, John,” she told him. “It’s a throwing weapon.”
“A throwing weapon?”
“Yes. Like our boomerangs. Let me show you.” She turned to the native, held out her hand. “Here. Please.”
“You throw, missie?”
“Yes. I throw.”
Watched by the tourists and the natives she held the thing by the end of its long arm, turned until she was facing about forty-five degrees away from the light, morning breeze, the flat surfaces of the cross at right angles to the wind. She raised her arm, then threw, with a peculiar flick of her wrist. The weapon left her hand, spinning, turned so that it was flying horizontally, like a miniature helicopter. It travelled about fifty yards, came round in a lazy arc, faltered, then fell in a flurry of fine sand.
“Not very good,” complained the girl. “You got better? You got proper one?”
The savage grinned. “You know?”
“Yes. I know.”
The man went back into his hut, returned with another weapon. This one was old, beautifully made, and lacking the crude designs that had been burned into the other with red-hot wire. He handed it to Tanya, who hefted it approvingly. She threw it as she had thrown the first one—and the difference was immediately obvious. There was no clumsiness in its flight, no hesitation. Spinning, it flew, more like a living thing than a machine. Its arms turned more and more lazily as it came back—and Tanya, with a clapping motion, deftly
caught it between her two hands. She stood admiring it—the smooth finish imparted by the most primitive of tools, the polish of age and of long use.
“How much?” she asked.
“No for sale, missie.” Again the very white grin. “But I give.”
“But you can’t. You mustn’t.”
“You take.”
“I shouldn’t, but . . .”
“Take it, lady,” said the driver. “This man is Najatira, the Chief of these people. Refusing his gift would offend him.” Then, businesslike, “You guide, Najatira?”
“Yes. I guide.” He barked a few words in his own language to his women, one of whom scuttled over the sand to retrieve the first fallen throwing weapon. Then, walking fast on his big, splayed feet he strode towards the rock. Somehow the two girls had ranged themselves on either side of him. Grimes looked on disapprovingly. Who was it who had said that these natives were humanoid only? This naked savage, to judge by his external equipment, was all too human. Exchanging disapproving glances, the two spacemen took their places in the little procession.
“Cave,” said Najatira, pointing. The orifice, curiously regular, was exactly at the tail of the slug-shaped monolith. “Called, by my people, the Hold of Winds. Story say, in Dream Time, wind come from there, wind move world . . . Before, world no move. No daytime, no nighttime . . .”
“Looks almost like a venturi, Captain,” Deane marked to Grimes.
“Mphm. Certainly looks almost too regular to be natural. But erosion does odd things. Or it could have been made by a blast of gases from the thing’s inside . . .”
“Precisely,” said Deane.
“But you don’t think . . . ? No. It would be impossible.”
“I don’t know what to think,” admitted Deane.
Their native guide was leading them around the base of the Rock. “This Cave of Birth. Tonight ceremony. We show you . . . And there—look up. What we call the fishing net. In Dream Time caught big fish . . .”
To the Galactic Rim: The John Grimes Saga Page 37
