Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III

by A Bertram Chandler

  ***

  Onslow was in the galley, setting the controls on the autochef, wearing the inevitable sarong. He looked pale under his tan. He, too, must have spent a wearing night.

  He looked at Grimes, grinned weakly. “Good morning, Captain. Just fixing brunch for her ladyship. Just between ourselves, I shan’t be sorry when this voyage is over . . .”

  “When do we get there?” asked Grimes.

  “Sixteen hundred hours tomorrow. You’ll all have to keep out of sight while we’re berthing, of course and not leave the ship until after dark. I’ve ironed all the details out with Fenella.”

  “I’m sure you have. Captain.”

  “And how’s your ironing going on, Captain? Very nicely, by the looks of you.”

  “Mphm.”

  The gong sounded. Onslow unloaded a tray from the autochef. He said, “Be good. Don’t do anything that you couldn’t do riding a bicycle.” He left Grimes to his own devices.

  ***

  After a good lunch Grimes decided to take the sun on the deck above the wheelhouse while the two girls retired to their cabins for an afternoon nap. Although the wheelhouse itself was, so far as he knew, still out of bounds to passengers Onslow had made no mention of the monkey island. He took with him a box of cigarillos and some reading matter that he had found. Perhaps inevitably this consisted of a few dogeared copies of Star Scandals. Among the other sensational stories there were a few by Fenella Pruin. In spite of the overwriting he found her account of life among the Blossom People on Francisco quite absorbing.

  He became vaguely aware of a droning noise different from the subdued hum of Triton’s engines. He raised himself on his elbows, looked up and around. He saw it then, out to starboard, flying seaward from over the hazy coastline. It was a Shaara blimp.

  He remembered being told that the Shaara hunted the things called Moby Dicks, using their own blimps rather than the charter chasers. And these must be Moby Dick waters; where there had been one there must be others. His sympathies lay with the victims of the chase rather than with the hunters but he did almost hope that the arthropods would sight one of the great beasts; he was curious to see how an airship would be able to cope with the playing of a harpooned prey. And how, he wondered, did the Shaara handle the recoil problem of the harpoon gun?

  At first it seemed that the airship was going to pass well astern of Triton but it changed course, so as to fly directly over her. That was natural enough. It was going nowhere in particular and its crew might well be wanting a closer look at the smart little surface vessel.

  As it approached it lost altitude. That, too, was natural enough. Grimes feeling mellow after his filling lunch with rather too much chilled beer to wash it down, prepared to forgive and to forget all the indignities he had suffered at the hands of the Shaara, got to his feet and waved cheerfully.

  He should have had more sense.

  The blimp flew directly overhead. He could see Shaara heads, with their antennae and huge, faceted eyes, peering down from over the gunwale of the car. He could see, too, the harpoon gun mounted forward, was interested to note that it was a rocket launcher rather than a cannon proper. Then he realised that nobody had answered his salutation.

  Fuck ’em! he thought: Snooty bee-bastards. Fuck ’em.

  The airship turned, coming around slowly. A Shaara, a princess, thought Grimes, was standing beside the rocket launcher working the laying wheel, depressing the launching rack. The barbed head of the missile was pointing directly at him.

  Surely they wouldn’t . . . he thought—and knew that they would. He ran for the ladder on the starboard side of the monkey island trying to get down to the bridge, to put the wheelhouse between himself and the harpoon. He tripped on the stack of magazines that he had brought up with him, fell heavily. Half stunned, he was still trying to get to his feet when the rocket was fired. He heard the swoosh of it and thought, This is it . . .

  Below him there was a screaming roar and a great crashing and clattering. Working it all out later he came to the conclusion that some minor turbulence had caused the blimp’s nose to dip at the crucial moment so that the harpoon, missing him, drove right through the wheelhouse, through the port window and out through the starboard one. But at this moment all that mattered was that he was still alive. He wanted to stay that way. He fell rather than clambered down the starboard ladder to the bridge wing, trying to get to cover before the Shaara could reload. He hardly noticed the pain as his bare foot came down on a sharp-edged shard of plastic, part of the wreckage of the wheelhouse windows.

  Then, automatically, his Survey Service training taking over, he began to assess damage. Looking into the wheelhouse he saw that the controls seemed to be undamaged. The harpoon must have plunged into the sea to starboard; its line, gleaming, enormously strong but light wire, was trailing aft. Grimes, who knew something about surface craft, wondered if he should stop the engines before the screw (or screws) got fouled. But Triton, with her hydraulic jet propulsion, had no external screws. Out to port the line, dipping in a graceful catenary, stretched to the blimp which was now running parallel to the surface ship. At the forward end of the car the figures of Shaara were busy about the rocket launcher, reloading it.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Onslow was roaring.

  He had come up into his devastated wheelhouse, not bothering to dress, in his bewildered fury, his hairy nakedness, looking like the ancestral killer ape in person. He grabbed the taut harpoon line, shaking it viciously. He glared through the broken window at the blimp.

  “Get under cover!” shouted Grimes. “They’re going to fire again!”

  “Two can play at that game!” yelled Onslow. He flung open the door of a locker on the after bulkhead of the wheelhouse, snatched from it a rifle. With the barrel he completed the destruction of the starboard window so that no remaining pieces of plastic obstructed his aim. He brought the butt of the weapon to his shoulder, sighted, fired. Grimes had expected that his target would be the Shaara who were now swinging the rocket launcher around to bear—but it was not. The burst of rapid fire was directed at the after end of the car, to the engine. Grimes saw the tracers strike, saw the coruscation of vividly blue sparks as broken circuits arced and fused. The pusher screw ceased to be a shimmering circle of near invisibility as the blades slowed and stopped. The airship dropped astern, still secured to Triton by the harpoon wire, being towed by her like a captive balloon.

  “You should have gone for the gunners, Captain,” Grimes told him. “They’ll have us well within range as long as the wire holds . . .”

  “And if I murder one of those murdering swine where will I be? Behind bars—or in the Colosseum arena! They’re rich, Grimes, rich—and justice, like everything else, is for sale on this world!” He grabbed Fenella—who had come up to the wheelhouse unnoticed until now—by the arm. “Here, now, make yourself useful! I taught you how to steer. Don’t bother with a compass course. Just zig-zag . . .”

  “Aren’t you going to report this to the authorities, Captain?” asked Grimes.

  “What with?” Onslow gestured towards the transceiver which was sited just below the sill of the starboard window. The harpoon itself had missed it but the line had sliced the box almost in two. “What with? Keep an eye on things up here while I go down to get tools to cut this blasted wire!”

  His bare feet thudded heavily on the treads as he ran down the companionway.

  Grimes took stock of the situation. Fenella—she had taken time to put on a sarong before coming up to the wheelhouse—was standing behind the binnacle, her hands on the two buttons used for manual steering. She pressed first one and then the other; the ship’s head swung to port and to starboard obedient to the helm. She knew what was required; her alterations of course were sufficiently random to throw off the aim of any gunner not gifted with precognition.

  She looked at him and grinned. “Boy! What a story I’ll be writing!”

  If you survive to write it, he thought but did
not feel unduly pessimistic. He picked up the heavy rifle from where Onslow had put it down, went out to the starboard wing of the bridge. Shirl and Darleen, who had come up by an outside ladder, were there. Unlike Fenella they had not bothered to cover themselves. They were staring aft at the tethered blimp, dipping and yawing at the end of its long towline.

  “What’s doin’?” asked Shirl.

  “They’re after me,” said Grimes. “The Shaara. It’s an old grudge.”

  “After us too, like as not,” said Darleen. “We killed four of the bastards in the Snuff Palace . . .”

  The blimp’s rocket projector fired. The missile fell into the sea at least half a kilometer on Triton’s starboard beam. Grimes laughed. Only a very lucky shot could hit the ship and the supply of harpoons must be limited. And once Onslow came up with something to cut the wire the Shaara would fall away rapidly astern, utterly impotent.

  But what were they doing now?

  First one dark shape dropped from the car, then another, then three more. Even at this distance Grimes could see the irridescent blur of their rapidly beating wings. They were overhauling Triton very slowly but they had less than two kilometers to fly and were, Grimes well knew, very strong fliers. Princesses, drones or worker-technicians? He could not tell. Armed or unarmed? The sunlight was reflected by something glitteringly metallic carried by one of them. A knife, possibly, or a handgun . . . But it didn’t much matter. He, Grimes, had Onslow’s rifle.

  He checked the magazine.

  It was empty.

  He ran into the wheelhouse, to the locker from which the captain had taken the weapon. It was completely bare. But there must be some more ammunition somewhere.

  Onslow came up from below, carrying a laser cutting torch.

  “Where’s your spare ammo?” asked Grimes.

  “Haven’t got any. This ain’t a warship. Now, where do I cut this wire? It’s going to lash back if I’m not careful . . . Now if I stand right in the middle of the wheelhouse to cut it I’ll be safe, but the rest of you won’t be. A spacer like you wouldn’t know how a parted wire under a strain whips back . . .” (Grimes did know but this was no time to tell the other man.) “So either get below decks or up on monkey island.” He patted Fenella’s arse affectionately. “You’re safe. You’re right on the centreline.”

  “But the Shaara . . . They’re coming after us. They’ll be boarding shortly.”

  “They’ll just have to wait till I’ve finished here. This harpoon wire is a bastard to cut through, even with laser . . .”

  He switched on the pistol-like tool and the surface of the wire began to glow where the almost invisible beam impinged upon it.

  Grimes ran out on to the bridge wing. He could not understand what the two New Alicians were doing. Stooping, the posture making their big rumps very prominent, they were gathering fragments of sharp-edged, shattered plastic from the deck, discarding some and keeping others.

  “Get off the bridge!” he shouted. “This wire’s going to go!”

  They obeyed him but they did not run below, as he was expecting. They scampered up the ladder to monkey island. He followed them. They would be as safe from the flying ends of wire there as anywhere else and would be able to see what was happening.

  Astern the blimp was still bobbing and weaving at the end of its towline. The five Shaara who had left the crippled airship were close now—two, the larger ones, princesses, the other three drones. If the things that they were carrying had been firearms they would have used them by now. Short spears, Grimes decided. Probably the weapons used in the final stages of the Moby Dick hunt—and such weapons could be, would be used against him. Perhaps he should have run below to find something with which to defend himself—a spanner or hammer from the engine room workshop, a knife from the galley. But now it was too late. The wire must surely be going to part at any moment and if he were on the bridge when it did so he would be sliced in two.

  Behind him and to either side of him Shirl and Darleen shouted. He heard the whirring noise as the fragments of flung plastic whirled past his head on either side, watched their glittering trajectory. One struck the leading princess, shearing off her iridescent wings at the left shoulder joint. The other would have hit the drone flying beside her had he not swerved and dipped. The injured Shaara fell to the sea, legs and the remaining wings thrashing ineffectually.

  Again the makeshift boomerangs were thrown. The other princess was hit, but on the heavily furred thorax. She faltered in her flight, falling behind the three drones, but kept on coming. Grimes could see the spears clearly now, nasty looking tridents. He picked up a shard of plastic, flung it viciously. He gashed his hand but did no other damage while Shirl, exhibiting far greater skill, decapitated a drone.

  Then the wire parted. The end on the starboard side of the wheelhouse, with the harpoon trailing from it, slid harmlessly overside. The other end whipped up and back towards the towed airship. The princess was in the way of it. The two halves of her body plummeted to the water.

  That left two drones.

  These abandoned the chase, dropping to the sea to go to the aid of the injured princess. The last that Grimes saw of them they were flying slowly back to the drifting blimp, carrying between them the body, possibly still living, of their superior.

  Chapter 30

  TRITON CAME TO TROY.

  Her entrance into port was delayed; Onslow had not been able to notify the authorities of his impending arrival by radio telephone, the transceiver damaged by the Shaara harpoon being irreparable. So she had to lay off to seaward of the breakwaters while her captain tried to establish communication by daylight signalling lamp. His Morse was rusty, although no rustier than the Morse of the duty officer in the signal station. Finally he was able to find out where he was to berth and to order his linesmen; as Triton was crewless a mooring party would have to board as soon as she entered the harbour.

  Grimes would have liked to watch the berthing procedure but he, with the three women, had to stay in his cabin until Onslow gave the all clear. So the four of them sat there waiting—Fenella in the single chair, Grimes between the two New Alicians on the bunk. The view from the port was very limited, affording only glimpses of cranes and gantries and, once, a huge bulk carrier.

  They felt the bump as the launch with the mooring party came alongside. Then there was the vibration as the hydraulic jets were employed to give lateral thrust and, finally, another bump as Triton’s starboard side made contact with the wharf fendering. Not long after there was the sound of footsteps as two people came up the companionway from the poop deck. They passed through the passenger accommodation, carried on up to the captain’s quarters.

  Port officials? The ship’s agent? Police?

  The four of them sat there in silence. Fenella was smoking, one cigarillo after another. So was Grimes, although he would sooner have had a pipe. Shirl and Darleen did not smoke.

  At last there was the sound of footsteps again. Three people were coming down the companionway. They did not pause on the passenger deck. After a short delay one person came on up, rapped sharply on the locked cabin door.

  It had to be Onslow, thought Grimes as he opened up.

  It was.

  “The harbourmaster and my agent,” reported the captain. “They wanted to know what the hell had happened to my wheelhouse. I told them the story that you cooked up, Fenella. They believed it.” He laughed. “They’d have believed and liked the true story still more. They don’t love the Shaara.”

  “My story is safer,” Fenella Pruin said. “For all of us, you included. Don’t forget that Grimes and I are officially dead until we elect to bob up again. You’ve never seen us, any of us. You were just steaming quietly along on your lawful occasions when a Moby Dick surfaced to starboard. Out to port there was this Shaara blimp with a hunting party. The trigger-happy bastards opened fire on their quarry, even though you were between it and them. Something went wrong and the harpoon went right through your wheelhouse, mis
sing you by millimeters. You, looking after your own ship, decided to cut the wire—which had the harpoon, in the water, at one end of it and the blimp at the other. You did so. When you came out on deck you saw Shaara bodies in the water and a couple of drones picking one up. Some of them must have come out of the airship and were flying down to have a few words with you when the wire parted. A couple or three must have been caught by one of the ends when it whipped back. . .

  “Is that what you told them?”

  “Yes.”

  “With no improvements of your own manufacture?”

  “No.”

  “Good. If anybody else asks questions, stick to my version. I doubt very much if even the Shaara, arrogant insects that they are, would dare to admit to attacking a New Venusberg ship on the high seas. After all, they’re the foreigners and you’re the native . . .”

  “Native?” asked Grimes.

  “Clarry’s naturalised,” Fenella told him. “He had to be before he was allowed to command a New Venusberg ship.” She turned to the shipmaster. “And now, how soon can we get out of here?”

  “It’ll be sunset in a couple of hours and there’s not much twilight in these latitudes.” He looked at her as he added, “I’ll be rather sorry to see you go.”

  “I’m sure that you will.”

  Onslow transferred his attention to Grimes. “And who’s going to pay for the repairs to my wheelhouse?”

  “Your insurance,” Grimes told him. “Or you can sue the Shaara.”

  “But if you hadn’t been on board . . .”

  “I paid my passage, which is more than somebody else did . . .”

  “And I’m still paying you, Grimes, so shut up!” snapped Fenella Pruin. She said to the shipmaster, “Let’s go up to your cabin, Clarry. It’s a bit less crowded than here. We can talk things over there.”