Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III

by A Bertram Chandler

  “I always read Fenella Pruin’s pieces,” said Dreeble. “In fact I am—or was—quite an admirer of hers. She’s been in jail at least once, you know. I remember the article she did on the experience. I Was A Prisoner Of The Prince Of Potsdam. Kinky that prince was. Very kinky. Potsdam’s one of the Waldegren planets, you know.”

  “I know,” said Dietrich. “I’ve relatives living there.”

  “They’ll have records on Potsdam, colonel. Fingerprints, retinal patterns, bone structure, the lot. Unless Miss Pruin—or her employers—went to the expense of a complete body sculpture job something is bound to match.”

  “If Miss Fenn is Miss Pruin,” said Dietrich.

  “Which of course, I am not,” said that lady. “You’d better release us before you make further fools of yourselves.”

  “Captain Dreeble,” said Grimes, sufficiently recovered to shove his oar in, “would be pleased and flattered to have as a passenger his favourite author. Do you think that I’d charter my ship to such a notorious woman?”

  “You’d do anything for money, Grimes,” said Dreeble. “For all your airs and graces you’re no better than Drongo Kane or myself. What sort of rake-off did you get from the Dog Star Line for interfering with our quite legitimate enterprises on Morrowvia?”

  “You should know that officers of the Federation Survey Service don’t take rake-offs, Dreeble.”

  “And is that why you’re not in the Service now?”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” admonished Dietrich. “This is my office, not a spaceman’s bar.” He turned to a woman officer. “Take Miss Fenn—or Miss Pruin—away and record all, and I mean all, her personal data.” Then, to one of his male assistants. “Send a Carlottigram to the governor of the Leipzig Jail on New Potsdam, over my name, requesting all available information on Fenella Pruin . . .”

  She tried to put up a struggle but stunguns flashed. She was carried out.

  “And now, Captain Grimes,” said Dietrich, “I must invite you to accept our hospitality until this little matter has been cleared up.”

  Grimes shrugged. A token resistance would do him no good and would please only the obnoxious Dreeble. He let himself be led out of the office and to a cell. This had a heavily barred door, a hard bed, a water faucet, a drainage hole in the corner for body wastes and a single overhead light strip. It was not luxurious accommodation.

  After he was locked in a guard pushed a bundle of magazines through the bars.

  “With Captain Dreeble’s compliments,” he said, grinning.

  Grimes wondered if Fenella Pruin would ever be writing about the star scandal in which she and he were now involved.

  Chapter 15

  INEVITABLY DREEBLE came to gloat.

  He stood well back from the grille as though afraid that Grimes would reach out through the bars to grab his throat. He smirked greasily. He said, “You’ve had it. Grimes. You’ve really had it. It’s a bloody pity that Drongo Kane’s not here. He’d be enjoying this as much as I am.”

  Grimes said nothing.

  “But I’m sorry about the Pruin bitch. She can really write, you know. I’ll miss her pieces in Star Scandals and the other sexzines.”

  “So will plenty of others,” said Grimes. “Including her employers back on Bronsonia. She’s a valuable piece of property. But they know where she is. They’ll soon buy her out of jail. They’ve done it before.”

  “I know. I’ve read her stories. But The Bronson Star will be told that she’s missing, presumed dead, when they start making enquiries. It’ll be a sad story. Shall I tell it to you?”

  “Go ahead, if it amuses you.”

  “It’s you that I want to amuse, Grimes. Well, she left Port Aphrodite in a hired camperfly. Correct? Piloted by yourself. And on a flight over the sea the thing just vanished. Pilot error? Pilot incompetence? Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Grimes laughed scornfully. “It’s a known fact that we came in to the Vulcan Island airport. And the camperfly’s still there.”

  “Is it?” Dreeble made an elaborate production of consulting his watch. “For your information, it should be lifting off about now. The good Colonel Dietrich has some talented people in his employ—masters of disguise and all that. So you and the fair Fenella, carrying your packaged purchases—lots of tourists do shopping in Vulcan City—will have boarded the camperfly. You have decided not to stay the night after all. You will tell Aerospace Control that you are bound for Delphi to consult the Oracle. (It’s a pity that you didn’t do that before you came here!)

  “So you lift. So you wamble off to the west’ard. Out of sight of land a police launch will be waiting. By this time your impersonators will have unpacked their parcels. In two of them are minaturised, personal inertial drive units. The pseudo Grimes and the make-believe Fenella bail out, landing on the deck of the launch. The camperfly flies on. And that’s where the third parcel comes in. Or goes off.”

  “A bomb?” asked Grimes.

  “How did you guess? Anyhow, when you don’t arrive at Delphi enquiries will be made and, eventually, a search initiated. A few shreds and splinters of wreckage may be found. But no Grimes. No Fenella Pruin. I imagine that she’ll get quite nice obituaries in the rags she wrote for—but nobody is going to miss you.”

  “You missed your vocation, Dreeble,” said Grimes. “You should have been a fiction writer. Do you really expect me to believe all this crap?”

  “But you haven’t heard the best of it yet, Grimes. As soon as your identities were established—the authorities on New Potsdam were very prompt and cooperative—the colonel made a full report to the New Venusberg committee of management. The Committee doesn’t like snoopers. Too, most of its members are sadistic bastards. They decided that the punishment should fit the crime. You came here to find things out. Well, the pair of you are going to do just that. The hard way. My big regret is that Fenella Pruin will not survive to write about her experiences.”

  “If you’re short of reading matter,” Grimes told him, “you can always write your own. You’d be a good hand at pornographic fantasy.”

  “Fantasy, Grimes?”

  “What else? This is a civilised planet. Decadent as all hell but still civilised. An Associate Member of the Interstellar Federation—and both Miss Pruin and I are citizens of the Federation. The only crime that we’ve committed is the minor one of trespass. I’ve no doubt that the very worst we can expect is a heavy fine followed by deportation.

  “And Miss Pruin will get a story of sorts. There was that very nasty hunting down and gang rape of some of your passengers; I didn’t notice you doing anything to protect them. I’ll get my charter money. Oh, on your way out you might ask the colonel just how long he intends to keep me in this cell. I can afford bail, you know.”

  “Bail, Grimes? They might accept a pound of flesh, but nothing less. You’re in a jam, the very last jam of your career, and don’t forget it.”

  “Fuck off, Dreeble,” said Grimes tiredly. “Go and make up some more sensational fiction.”

  “Isn’t there a saying, Grimes, that truth is stranger than fiction?” retorted Dreeble as he walked away.

  Chapter 16

  GRIMES WAS FED at regular intervals—filling but savourless sludge. He was allowed toilet requisites—a towel, a washcloth, soap, depilatory cream. He was given a change of underclothing. But the guards who brought him these things refused to answer his questions, ignored his demands for an interview with Colonel Dietrich, a telephone call to the Federation High Commissioner. He could not find out what had happened to Fenella Pruin. Much as he disliked her he felt responsible for her. He realised that he was worrying more about her safety than his own.

  And what if Dreeble’s wild story were not fiction?

  But it had to be.

  Fenella Pruin was a famous journalist, known throughout the galaxy. He, as a shipmaster and a shipowner, was a person of some consequence and possessed some slight measure of fame himself. They couldn’t just vanish. There
would be enquiries made—and not only by people outside New Venusberg. Captain McKillick, for example. The Port Captain must already be wondering what had happened to his new inamorata . . .

  But the faked camperfly disaster . . .

  That would answer all questions, especially when identifiable wreckage was found.

  And then one morning they came for Grimes. (He didn’t know that it was morning until he was hustled out of the prison to a waiting van; his watch had been taken from him shortly after his arrest.) He was taken to the airport. The vehicle pulled up right alongside a big, inertial drive atmosphere transport; no bystander would be able to see who or what was transferred from car to aircraft. He was thrown into an unfurnished, padded cell, locked in.

  Sitting there on the deck—it was comfortable enough—he could do nothing but wait and worry. Perhaps, he thought, he was just being given the bum’s rush from Vulcan Island. Perhaps he was being taken back to Port Aphrodite where he would be put aboard Little Sister and told to get off the planet and never come back. As long as Fenella Pruin was with him he would do just that, and thankfully.

  He felt rather than heard—the padding of the cell was effective sonic insulation—the aircraft coming to life. The resilient material was depressed under the weight of his body as the transport lifted. He sensed a turn, then forward motion. He settled down to endure what he hoped would be only a short voyage. He sorely missed his pipe but it, with other possessions, had been confiscated. He was uncomfortably aware of the fullness of his bladder. He looked in some desperation around the cell. At last, by the dim illumination of the overhead light, he found a panel in the deck covering that lifted up and away. There was a drainhole under it.

  Well, that was one pressing problem solved.

  But there were others—many others.

  He would cross these bridges when he came to them.

  He drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

  There was nothing else to do.

  ***

  He woke up when the transport came in to a landing.

  The door was flung open. Two burly, black uniformed guards dragged him out into the alleyway; one of them snapped handcuffs on to his wrists. He was pulled roughly to the open door beyond which was the ramp, then on to the gangway. He expected to see the familiar environs of Port Aphrodite but he was disappointed. This was an airport of sorts, not a spaceport, little more than a landing field in a valley ringed by high, barren crags. The time was late evening. The sky overhead was dark with a scattering of the brighter stars already visible. The lights at ground level were sparse and dim with an ominous ruddy quality.

  Another small party was descending the gangway ahead of Grimes and his captors. Another prisoner with two guards . . . The back view of this person looked familiar.

  “Fenella!” shouted Grimes.

  She turned before the guards could restrain her. “Grimes!” Then, “How many bloody times must I tell you that the name, on this world, is Prunella Fenn?”

  So she had retained her sense of humour.

  “Shut up, you!” One of Grimes’ escorts cuffed the side of his head viciously. Then, to his companions further down the ramp, “Get the Pruin bitch away from here, Pete, before she can yap to her space chauffeur!”

  “Grimes!” she yelled before she could be silenced, “have you got word to the High Commissioner?”

  “No!” There was another blow, this time on the mouth. “No! Have you?”

  She tried to reply but she was effectively silenced. Grimes had to stand there, in the grip of his guards, while she was dragged away, struggling, into the ominous dusk. He thought that she was taken to the lighted entrance of a tunnel. He assumed that he would be taken in the same direction but he was not, although it was also a tunnel into which he was pulled and prodded.

  ***

  There was an underground railway with little, open cars running through dimly lit caverns. There was, at last, a platform beyond which were huge, steel doors that opened, but only enough to permit the ingress of one man, when one of the guards pressed a concealed button in the rock face. Grimes’ handcuffs were unlocked and removed and he was literally thrown through the gap. He landed heavily on the rough floor, grazing his hands, tearing his clothing and skinning his knees. He scrambled to his feet, turned. The doorway had already closed.

  He looked around. He was in a big chamber, more artificial than natural, like a ship’s airlock on a gigantic scale. A door like the one through which he had been thrown was opening. So, he thought, he was supposed to pass through it. What was on the other side? Nothing pleasant, he was sure, but he would surely starve if he stayed here. Perhaps there would be food and water at the end of the rocky tunnel that was now revealed. Perhaps there would not be—but he had to find out.

  He limped into the tunnel. The inner doors shut silently behind him. He was committed now. Under his thin-soled shoes the floor was smooth, possibly worn so by the passage of many feet, but the walls were rough. Light came from glowtubes set in the overhead.

  Grimes sniffed. He could smell food. He listened. He could hear voices. He plodded on until he came to a right-angled bend. Beyond this the tunnel extended for only another thirty meters or so, then expanded into a huge cave. There were people there, many people, men and women, some clad in rags and some completely naked. Most of them were gathered around a long trough set against one of the walls. From this drifted savoury smelling steam. Grimes, followed his nose, joined the crowd. People, he saw, were dipping stone mugs into the stew. He wondered where he might obtain one of these utensils.

  A big, shaggy-haired, heavily bearded man shouldered his way out of the mob. He was clad in the remains of some uniform; two gold bands gleamed on his surviving shoulder-board. Walking closely behind him were four women. Two of them, judging by the growths on head and body that were more like feline fur than human hair, were Morrowvians. The others, small-breasted and with heavy thighs and oddly jointed legs, could have been members of the same race as Willy Willy’s passengers.

  The big man looked down at Grimes. “I haven’t seen you before.”

  “I just got here,” Grimes told him.

  “You’re a spacer, aren’t you? You’ve got the look.”

  “Yes.”

  “So’m I. Second mate—or ex-second mate—of the not-so-good ship Suchan. And may the Odd Gods of the Galaxy rot Captain Bejlik’s cotton socks. And his feet. And his knees. And his . . .”

  “Where do I find a mug?” asked Grimes, eyeing and sniffing enviously the vessels held by the spaceman and his companions.

  “Haven’t they been feeding you?”

  “Only prison mush. And the last time was some hours ago.”

  “We’ll soon fix that. Darleen!” One of the heavy-haunched women stepped forward. “Give your pannikin to our friend here. You can soon find another one for yourself.”

  “I couldn’t . . .” began Grimes.

  “You will. This mayn’t be Liberty Hall an’ if you speak unkindly to my cats I’ll knock your teeth in—but never let it be said that Jimmy O’Brien turned a deaf ear to the appeal of a fellow spaceman. The two of us are the only two spacers here now since Komatsu bought it. . . Are you any good with long range weapons, by the way? We need another expert for the team.”

  Grimes accepted the thick mug from the girl’s hands. He could see chunks of meat and vegetables floating in the thick stew. It tasted as good as it looked and smelled.

  After a satisfying gulp he said, “This is all very confusing, Mr. O’Brien . . .”

  “Call me Jimmy.”

  “All right. Jimmy. But there are some things that I must find out. First of all, has a woman called Prunella Fenn—or Fenella Pruin—been brought here?”

  “No. You’re the only newcomer we’ve had for days. Is she your girlfriend?”

  “I’m responsible for her. Secondly, what is this place?”

  “A barracks, you might call it.”

  “A slave barracks?”

&nbs
p; “No. For gladiators.”

  ***

  For gladiators . . .

  Grimes was not at all happy as he accompanied Jimmy O’Brien, the four women tailing along behind, across the floor of the huge cave. There was a lavish scattering of huge mattresses, most of which were occupied by groups of people eating and talking in low voices. Many of them turned to eye Grimes appraisingly as he walked slowly past.

  “They’re weighing you up,” said O’Brien cheerfully. “They might be coming against you in the arena. They’re wondering what you’re good at.” Then, “Here’s our pad.”

  He motioned Grimes to sit down, then joined him. The four women waited until the men were comfortably settled before seating themselves.

  O’Brien took a noisy gulp of stew then said, “Since it looks like you’re one of us we’d better get to know each other. These . . .” he motioned towards the two Morrowvians, “are my pussies, Miala and Leeuni.” (Miala’s hair was white, in vivid contrast to her brown skin, while Leeuni’s was tortoiseshell.) Keep your paws off them. And these, Darleen and Shirl, were Komatsu’s girls.” (They were horse-faced, but pleasantly so, and smiled at him diffidently.) “They’re yours now. While you last. Or while they last.

  “As I’ve already told you I am—or was—a spacer. My crime—if you call it that—was helping Miala to stow away aboard my ship. Miala’s crime was stowing away. The Old Man—bad cess to him!—turned us in. Leeuni is a murderess—although the pimp she did in wasn’t much loss.

  “Shirl and Darleen were performers in some clipjoint called Katy’s Kathouse. One of the so-called entertainments there is the kangaroo hunt. They were two of the kangaroos. The hunt finishes with the hunters raping the hunted. Well, the girls here didn’t like being raped. Darleen kneed some fat slob of a tourist in the balls and Shirl just about bit the ear off another one. Katy—as far as she’s concerned the customer is always right as long as he has a full wallet—took a very dim view.

  “And now, what’s your heartrending story? For a start, what do they call you?”