Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III

by A Bertram Chandler

  “Captain Grimes? Yes, we have your reservation. Room number 5063. And for how long will you be staying, sir?”

  “Probably until Alpha Sextans comes in. She’s the next direct ship for Earth.”

  “Have a happy stay with us, sir.”

  “Thank you,” said Grimes.

  He accompanied the porter in the lift up to the fiftieth floor, was ushered into a room from the wide windows of which he could enjoy a view of the city and the distant spaceport. Little Sister was there among the grey towers that were the big ships, no more than a tiny, aureate mote. He turned away from the window to the resplendently uniformed porter who was waiting expectantly.

  He said, “I’m sorry. I’m out of cash until I get to the bank.”

  “That’s all right, sir,” said the man, conveying by the tone of his voice that it was not.

  He left Grimes to his own devices.

  ***

  Grimes explored his accommodation.

  He treated himself to a cup of coffee from the tap so labeled over the bar. He lowered himself into one of the deep armchairs, filled and lit his pipe. Suddenly he was feeling very lonely in this comfortable but utterly characterless sitting room. He wondered how he would pass the days until he could board that Earthbound passenger liner. He would not, he told himself firmly, go near the spaceport before then. He had made his clean break with Little Sister; he would do his best to keep it that way.

  The telephone buzzed.

  He reached out, touched the acceptance button. The screen came alive, displayed the pretty face of one of the hotel’s receptionists.

  “Captain Grimes, a lady and a gentleman are here to see you.”

  “Who are they?” Grimes asked.

  “A Ms. Granadu, sir. A Mr. Williams.”

  The names rang no bells in Grimes’ memory and it must have shown in his expression.

  “Spacepersons, sir,” said the girl.

  “Send them up,” said Grimes.

  He had just finished his coffee when the door chimes tinkled. He had not yet recorded his voice in the opener so had to get up from his chair to let the visitors in. Yes, he thought, the receptionist had been right. These were certainly spacers; the way in which they carried themselves made this obvious. And he, a spacefarer himself, could do better than merely generalize. One spaceman branch officer, he thought, fairly senior but never in actual command. One catering officer.

  The spaceman was not very tall but he was big. He had a fleshy nose, a broad, rather thick-lipped mouth, very short hair the color of dirty straw, pale grey eyes. He was plainly dressed in a white shirt and dark grey kilt with matching long socks, black, blunt-toed, highly polished shoes. The woman was flamboyant. She was short, chunky, red-haired, black-eyed and beaky-nosed. Her mouth was a wide, scarlet slash. In contrast to her companion’s sober attire she was colorfully, almost garishly clad. Her orange blouse was all ruffles, her full skirt was bright emerald. Below its hem were stiletto-heeled, pointed-toed knee boots, scarlet with gold trimmings. Jewels scintillated at the lobes of her ears and on her fingers. It looked, at first glance, as though she had a ring on every one of them.

  “Williams,” said the big man in a deep voice.

  “Magda Granadu,” said the woman in a sultry contralto.

  “Grimes,” said Grimes unnecessarily.

  There was handshaking. There was the arranging of seats around the coffee table. Magda Granadu, without being asked, drew cups of coffee for Williams and herself, replenished Grimes’ cup. Grimes had the uneasy feeling that he was being taken charge of.

  “And what can I do for you, gentlepersons?” he asked.

  “You can help us, Captain,” said Williams. “And yourself.”

  “Indeed?” Grimes was intrigued but trying not to show it. These were not the sort of people who, hearing somehow of his sudden acquisition of wealth, would come to ask him for a large, never-to-be-repaid loan. “Indeed?”

  “That ship in parking orbit—Epsilon Scorpii. You must have seen her when you came in.”

  “I did.”

  “She’s up for sale. It hasn’t been advertised yet but it soon will be.”

  Grimes laughed. “And so what? The Interstellar Transport Commission is always flogging its obsolescent tonnage.”

  “Too right, Captain. But why shouldn’t you be the next owner of that hunk of still spaceworthy obsolescence?”

  “Why should I?” countered Grimes. “I’ve just sold one ship. I’m in no hurry to buy another.”

  “You would not be happy away from ships,” said the woman, staring at him intently. “As well you know.”

  She’s right, thought Grimes.

  He said, “All right. Just suppose that I’m mad enough to buy this Epsilon Class rustbucket. What is your interest?”

  “We want to get back into space,” said Williams.

  “And what makes you think that I’d help you?” Grimes demanded.

  “The I Ching told us,” said the woman.

  Grimes regarded her curiously. With her features, her flamboyant clothing, her garish jewelry, she could well have passed for a Romany fortune teller, one of those who plied their trade in tea rooms and other restaurants. But such women usually practiced palmistry or worked with cards, either of the ordinary variety or the Tarot pack. To find one who consulted the Book of Changes was . . . weird. And what was a spacewoman doing as a soothsayer anyhow?

  She went on, “We’re old shipmates, Billy—Mr. Williams—and I. In the Dog Star Line. Billy was second mate, waiting for his promotion to mate. I was catering officer and purser. Billy was married to a girl on this planet who did not like having a husband who was always away on long voyages. So, just to please her, he resigned and found a shore job. A little while later I resigned too. I had a bachelor uncle on this world whom I used to look up every time that the ship came here. He was an importer in a small way but big enough to have amassed a neat little fortune. He . . . died. When his will was read it was discovered that he’d left everything to me. So, having said my fond farewells to the Dog Star Line, I thought I’d start a restaurant. I’m still running it although I had some very bad patches; now the bank owns most of it. I’ve come to realize that I was far happier as a spacewoman.

  “Billy’s of the same way of thinking. He’s very much at loose ends since his wife left him.”

  “You can say that again!” growled Williams.

  “It was all for the best,” Magda Granadu told him. “Well, Captain, Billy often comes around to my place just about closing time. We have a few drinks and talk about old times. You know. Anyhow, a few nights back we were crying into each other’s beer and telling each other how we’d sell our souls to get back into deep space, then Billy suggested that I tell our fortunes, his and mine. No, don’t laugh. Quite a few of my customers come to the Tzigane as much for my fortune-telling as the food. I’ve made some lucky guesses. Up to now I’ve always used the cards and it’s only recently that I’ve gotten interested in the Oracle of Change. So I got the book out and threw three coins—I don’t use yarrow sticks—and constructed a hexagram. Ta Ch’u, it was. It told us to place ourselves in the service of the king and that it would benefit us to cross the great water. The great water is, of course, deep space. And the king—you.”

  “Me, a king?” demanded Grimes incredulously.

  “You were a sort of god-king once, weren’t you? The story got around. And, in any case, who more kingly than a shipmaster who owns his own ship? The local media gave you a good coverage when you brought Little Sister in.”

  “I no longer own her,” said Grimes.

  “We are well aware of that, Captain, but you were still owner-master when I consulted the oracle. It puzzled us; surely you would not require a crew in such a small ship. Yet yours was the name that came to mind. Too, there was the business of the coins that I used . . .”

  “The coins?” asked Grimes bewilderedly.

  “Yes. I used these.” She fished in one of the capacious
pockets at the front of her skirt, brought out three discs of some silvery alloy. Grimes stared at them. He had seen similar coins in his father’s collection. They had been minted on Earth as long ago as the twentieth century, old style. One side bore the head of a woman, Queen Elizabeth, in profile. On the other was a stylized bird with a tail like an ancient lyre, and the number 10. An Australian ten-cent piece, very old yet in good condition.

  “Where did you get these?” Grimes asked.

  “They’re Billy’s.”

  “My father gave them to me years ago,” said Williams. “They’re out of his collection.”

  “My father has coins like them in his collection,” said Grimes.

  “And they’re Australian coins,” said Magda. “And you’re Australian. There’s a tie-in.”

  “Mphm,” grunted Grimes dubiously.

  “So the I Ching pointed to you,” she insisted. “But we couldn’t see how you could help us. And then, a day or so later, we heard that you’d sold Little Sister to Yosarian at some fantastic price. And we heard, too, that Epsilon Scorpii was coming up for sale. My restaurant is a popular place for business lunches and I often overhear conversations at table. Pinnett—he’s Planetary Manager for the Interstellar Transport Commission—was entertaining a couple of ITC masters. They were talking about the Epileptic Scorpion. Pinnett was saying that he wished that there was somebody on Austral who’d buy her. He’d get a nice commission on the deal.”

  “Mphm,” grunted Grimes again.

  “You’re the king the I Ching told us of, Captain. At the moment you’re a king without a kingdom. But you could buy one.”

  Why not? Grimes asked himself. Why not? A sizeable tramp, carrying sizeable cargoes, might make a living. But he would be obliged by law to carry at least a minimal crew in such a vessel.

  “What about crew?” he said. “All right, I seem to have two volunteers. One control room officer. I suppose that you hold a Master Astronaut’s Certificate, Mr. Williams? One catering officer cum purser. But I shall require two more control room officers. And engineers, both Mannschenn Drive and inertial drive. And a Sparks. Where do I get them from? More important—where would I get cargoes from? Little Sister couldn’t make one man a living. Could this Epsilon Class rustbucket make a living for a crew of at least a dozen?”

  “To answer your first question, Captain,” said Williams, “there are quite a few retired spacers on Austral, many of whom would love to make just one more voyage, and one more after that . . . To answer the second one—a tramp can always make money if her owner isn’t too fussy, if he’s willing to carry cargoes that the major shipping lines wouldn’t touch, to go to places where the big shipping companies wouldn’t risk their precious ships . . .”

  “Take a gamble, Captain,” cajoled Magda Granadu. “Ride your famous luck.”

  “My luck?”

  She smiled and said, “You’re famous for it, aren’t you?”

  “Let the I Ching decide for him,” said Williams.

  Magda handed him the three antique coins, then from her capacious pocket produced a book bound in black silk. Grimes recalled past encounters with fortune tellers. There had been that drunken Psionic Communications Officer aboard Discovery who had read the cards for him with uncanny accuracy, and the old Duchess of Leckhampton on El Dorado who had also read the cards, although she had favored the Tarot pack.

  “Shake and throw,” ordered the woman. “Shake and throw.”

  He rattled the coins in his cupped hands, let them fall to the carpet. Two heads and a tail. “Yang,” he heard the woman whisper as she drew a line on a piece of scrap paper. “Eight.” He picked up the coins, shook them, threw again. Two tails and a head. “Yin,” he heard. “Seven.” Then there was another yin, another seven. And another. Then three heads—yang, nine. And finally two heads and a tail—yang, eight.

  “That will do,” she said.

  “Well?” he asked. “What’s the verdict?”

  “Wait,” she told him.

  She opened the book, studied the chart. She turned the pages.

  “Upper trigram Sun,” she murmured. “Lower trigram Chen. Increase. There will be advantage in every undertaking. It will be advantageous even to cross the great water . . .” She looked up at Grimes. “Yes. You are destined to make a voyage.”

  “That is my intention in any case,” he said. “But as a passenger.”

  “I haven’t finished yet,” she told him sharply. “It goes on like this. If the ruler strives to dispense benefits to his people and to increase the general level of prosperity he will be given loyalty in return. Thus he will be able to do great things.”

  Hogwash, Grimes almost said, would have said if he had not felt that in some weird way he was standing at the focus of cosmic lines of force. Hogwash, he thought again—but he knew that he was standing at the crossroads.

  And he must make his own decision.

  He put a hand down to the floor, picked up one coin.

  “Heads I buy the ship,” he said. “Tails I don’t.”

  He sent the little disc spinning into the air.

  It came up heads.

  Chapter 3

  THE NEXT MORNING, bright and early, Magda Granadu and Billy Williams joined Grimes as he was finishing his breakfast in the hotel’s coffee shop. The previous evening they had stayed with Grimes to discuss with him the problem of manning; they, as merchant officers, knew far more about such matters than he did. In the Survey Service his crews had been found for him and, except for his tour of duty in the couriers, he had always been used to a superfluity of personnel. As master of Epsilon Scorpii—or whatever name he would give her once she was his—he would have no Bureau of Appointments to dip its ladle into the barrel to procure for him his entitlements. (There had been times when he had been obliged to cope with what was at the bottom of the barrel.)

  Williams looked at his watch. “As soon as you’ve finished your coffee, Skipper, we’ll ring Pinnett. He should be in his office by now.”

  So it was “Skipper” now, thought Grimes. If—if!—Williams became one of his officers such familiarity would not be tolerated. It might be all right for the Dog Star Line but not for any ship that Grimes might command.

  He drained his cup, taking his time about it. He did not like being rushed. Then, with Williams and Magda on either side of him, he took the elevator up to the fiftieth floor. He found that the cleaning robots were in his suite, noisily dusting, polishing, changing towels and bed linen. One of the spider-like things was making a major production of quite unnecessary housekeeping in the telephone alcove, buffing each button on the selector panel with loving care.

  Williams put his big hands about its bulbous body, lifted it down to the floor and gave it a gentle shove toward the center of the room. It staggered no farther than a meter on its spindly legs and then turned around, scampering back to its appointed task. Again Williams tried to shoo it away. Again it came back.

  “Get rid of that bloody thing!” growled Grimes.

  “Aye, aye, Skipper!”

  Williams kicked, hard. The little robot flew through the air, crashed against the wall. Its plastic carapace shattered and there was a coruscation of violet sparks and the acridity of ozone. But it still wasn’t dead. It began to crawl back toward the telephone, bleeding tendrils of blue smoke from its broken body.

  Williams stamped on it, jumped on it with both feet.

  Grimes said coldly, “That will do. I suppose you realize that I shall have to pay for this wanton damage.”

  “You can afford it, Skipper!” Williams told him cheerfully.

  Grimes snarled wordlessly, then touched the D button for Directory. He said, speaking slowly and distinctly, “Interstellar Transport Commission.” On some worlds he would have been put through automatically, but not here; he would have to do his own button pushing once he got the number. Luminous words and numerals appeared on the screen: INNIS & MCKELLAR, SOUTHPORT COMPREDORES—0220238.

  Grimes sn
arled again, stabbed X for Cancel, prodded D and repeated his order in the kind of voice that he had used in the past for reprimanding junior officers.

  The blanked-out screen returned to life, INTRACITY TRANSIT CORPORATION—02325252.

  “You’re getting closer, Skipper,” said Williams encouragingly. “But the number is 023571164.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me before?”

  “You never asked.”

  Grimes touched the buttons as Williams called out the numerals. After what seemed far too long a delay a sour-faced, grey-haired woman looked out at them from the screen, not liking what she was seeing from her end.

  “Interstellar,” she snapped. “At the service of the universe.”

  “Mr. Pinnett, please,” said Grimes.

  “Whom shall I say is calling?”

  “Captain Grimes.”

  The picture of the woman faded, was replaced by a gaudy representation of a spiral nebula. This faded in its turn when the woman came back.

  “Mr. Pinnett,” she said, “is in conference.”

  “Have you any idea when he will be free?”

  “I am afraid not.”

  “Perhaps,” said Grimes, “somebody else might be able to help me.”

  “I can tell you now,” she said, “that we have no vacancies for space crew. In any case we always endeavor to avoid recruiting on outworlds.”

  With an effort Grimes kept a hold on his temper. He said, “I understand that your ship, Epsilon Scorpii,is up for sale.”

  “From whom did you obtain that information?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m interested in buying her if the price is right.”

  She did not say it but she was obviously thinking, Space-bums can’t buy ships. Grimes’ name had meant nothing to her. She said, “Even an obsolescent Epsilon Class tramp is very expensive. I do not think that any offer that you can make will be of interest to Mr. Pinnett. May I suggest that you waste no more of my time?”

  The screen went blank.

  “Good bye, prune-puss,” muttered Williams.

  “Would you know the number of Yosarian Robotics?” Grimes asked him.