Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III

by A Bertram Chandler

  “No, Skipper, but I’ll get it for you.”

  Williams punched the D button, said the words. On his first attempt he got YOUR SAURIAN PET SHOP. Grimes said that he was interested in buying a scorpion, not a lizard. Williams kicked the console. Something tinkled inside it. He tried again and this time got YOSARIAN ROBOTICS and the number. He stabbed the keys with a thick forefinger. The face of the plump blonde appeared on the screen. She looked at Williams without recognition and said cheerfully, “Yosarian to save you labor. Can I assist you?”

  Grimes moved so that he was within the scope of the scanner.

  “Good morning, Captain Grimes,” she said.

  “Good morning. Can I talk to Mr. Yosarian, please?”

  “He is down at the spaceport, aboard your ship. Sorry, Captain—his ship. Perhaps if you called him there . . .”

  Grimes did.

  After some delay the roboticist appeared. He looked as though he had been working: there was a smudge of oil on his fat face. He snapped, “What is it? Can’t you see that I’m busy?” Then, “Oh, it’s you, Captain. If you want your Little Sister back it’s just too bad.”

  “I do want a ship,” said Grimes, “but not Little Sister. I’ve been trying to get through to Mr. Pinnett, the local boss cocky of the ITC, to find out how much he wants for Epsilon Scorpii. Some frosty-faced female gave me the brush-off.”

  Yosarian laughed. “Pinnett’s tame dragon. She’s quite notorious. But are you really thinking of buying that decrepit bitch? Still, there’s an old saying, isn’t there, about the dog returning to his vomit . . .”

  “And also there’s ‘Once bitten, twice shy,’” said Grimes wryly. “But I’m willing to take the risk of getting bitten again.”

  “It’s your money, Captain. But what do you want me to do about it?”

  “Perhaps if you rang Mr. Pinnett and told him that you know of a potential buyer for his superannuated scorpion . . . You pull heavier Gs on this world than I do.”

  “All right, Captain. I’ll do that. You’re staying at the Centaurian, aren’t you? I’ll tell him to call you back there. Oh, by the way, I’m having trouble getting your autochef—my autochef—working properly. You must have abused it considerably when you were using it . . .”

  His face faded from the screen.

  Grimes and his companions were halfway through their second cups of coffee when the telephone buzzed. He accepted the call. A craggy-faced black-haired man looked out at Grimes suspiciously. “Captain Grimes? I’m Pinnett, Planetary Manager for the Commission. Mr. Yosarian called me and said that you might be interested in buying Epsilon Scorpii and assured me that you possess the necessary funds. I cannot understand why you did not approach me directly.”

  “I did,” said Grimes. “Or tried to.”

  “Oh.” Pinnett looked slightly embarrassed. “But how did you know that the ship is up for sale? Head Office, on Earth, has yet to advertise.”

  “I just heard it somewhere,” said Grimes. “And I also gained the impression that it would be to your advantage if you, personally, handled the sale.”

  “How did you . . . ? Oh, never mind, there’s always gossip.” His manner brightened. “Suppose we take lunch together to talk things over. 1300 hours. Do you know the Tzigane, on Moberley Square?”

  Magda’s place, thought Grimes. “I can find it,” he said.

  “Good. 1300 hours then.”

  His face vanished.

  “I hope that you aren’t allergic to sour cream and paprika, Skipper,” said Williams.

  ***

  The Tzigane was the sort of restaurant that Grimes categorized as being ethnic as all hell. Its interior tried to convey the impression of being that of a huge tent; its human waiters and waitresses were attired as romanticized Romanies. Magda was there, of course, generally supervising, but gave no indication of knowing Grimes, although she greeted Pinnett personally. The food was good, rich and highly spiced, and the portions generous. Pinnett did not allow business to interfere with the more serious business of eating and drinking and it was only when large mugs of coffee, laced with some aromatic spirit, were placed before them that he was willing to discuss the possible sale of Epsilon Scorpii.

  “Well, Captain,” he said around a slim, black cigar, “you’ll be getting a good ship.”

  “If I buy her,” said Grimes. Then, bluntly, “How much do you want for her?”

  “Nine million,” said Pinnett. “A bargain.”

  “She’s not an Alpha Class liner, straight from the builder’s yard,” said Grimes.

  “I know she’s not. But she’s a good, reliable workhorse, even if she’s not built of gold. She’s not a toy.”

  “At her age,” said Grimes, “she’ll need a lot of maintenance.”

  “Don’t you believe it, Captain. We look after our ships in the Interstellar Transport Commission.”

  “I’d like to inspect her,” said Grimes. “As soon as possible.”

  “I’m afraid that you’ll have to wait a few days,” Pinnett told him. “Arranging a shuttle at short notice isn’t easy. Our own tender, Austral Meteor, is being withdrawn from service for annual survey.”

  “There are tugs,” said Grimes. He strongly suspected that Pinnett did not wish to have the ship inspected until some attempt had been made to have her looking her best for a potential purchaser.

  Pinnett smiled—regretfully or with relief? “There are space tugs here, of course. But they aren’t here right now. Hadn’t you heard that Punch and Percheron have both gone out to the Dog Star Line’s Samoyed? A complete engine room breakdown, all of a light-year from here.”

  “What about the met. satellite tenders?”

  “You know what bureaucrats are. By the time that the Bureau of Meteorology made its mind up about hiring one to us our own tender would be back in service and the two tugs sitting on their backsides in the spaceport, waiting for the next job.”

  “I think I can arrange something,” said Grimes. “I see a telephone there . . .”

  As he got up from the table he saw that Magda Granadu was bearing down upon it, holding a pack of cards in her hand. No doubt she was about to offer to tell Pinnett’s fortune—a prognostication, thought Grimes, that would predispose the ITC manager not to hang out for too high a price for the ship.

  ***

  “You again, Captain Grimes!” complained Yosarian. “Just when I’m in the middle of getting the innie properly tuned. Did you know that it was delivering only ninety percent of its true capacity?”

  “But it’s working, isn’t it? Mr. Yosarian, I’d like to hire Little Sister for a day. There’s no shuttle available to take me out to Epsilon Scorpii, and I want to make an inspection as soon as possible.”

  “I’m not hiring her out,” said Yosarian. Then he grinned. “But I want to see how she handles. We’ll regard this as a sort of trial run. I can be ready for space in thirty minutes. That suit you?”

  Chapter 4

  YOSARIAN, as promised, had Little Sister ready for space in half an hour. There were delays, however, before she could lift off. Only two spacesuits were on board; others had to be borrowed from the Interstellar Transport Commission’s stores. Luckily the storekeeper was able to find one large enough to accommodate the roboticist’s corpulence. Meanwhile Pinnett got in touch, by radio telephone, with Epsilon Scorpii’s ship-keeping officer to make arrangements for the reception of the boarding party.

  Finally, with everybody and everything aboard Little Sister, the pinnace was buttoned up. Yosarian, not without diffidence, took the pilot’s seat in the control cab. Grimes sat beside him. Billy Williams and Pinnett disposed themselves in the main cabin. Permission was received from Aerospace Control to lift off. Yosarian looked at Grimes, who nodded.

  The fat man’s pudgy hands hesitated briefly over the console, then turned on the inertial drive. Little Sister shuddered as the thrust built up. The drive hammered more loudly as the little ship lifted from the apron. Yosarian increased the r
ate of ascent and said to Grimes, “Can’t you feel the difference? The innie needed tuning very badly.”

  It sounded the same to Grimes as it always had—but as long as Yosarian’s tinkerings kept him happy that was all right by him. He did not interfere with the roboticist as he pushed Little Sister up and up, through wisps of high cirrus, into a sky which rapidly deepened to indigo, into the airless blackness where the unwinking stars were brightly shining. The pinnace’s new owner seemed to know what he was doing and was not so arrogant as to attempt himself tasks that were better carried out by the computer. He fed the elements of Epsilon Scorpii’s synchronous orbit, which he had obtained from Pinnett, into Little Sister’s electronic brain and switched control from manual to automatic. Before long a spark appeared on the radar screen, a point of light, tiny at first, that expanded into a glowing blob that grew steadily.

  He turned to Grimes and said, “Well, there she is, Captain.” He paused, then asked, “How did I do?”

  “Very nicely, Captain,” said Grimes.

  Yosarian blushed happily and said, “Would you mind taking over now, Captain Grimes? You’re more used to this sort of thing than I am.”

  “But you have to get some practice. Just match orbital velocity; it shouldn’t be difficult. Edge her in until we’re half a kilometer off target, then put her back on automatic . . .” He transferred his attention to the NST transceiver. “Little Sister to Epsilon Scorpii . . .”

  “Eppy Scorpy to Little Sister. I read you.”

  A slightly effeminate voice, thought Grimes. Some very junior officer, he decided, not an old retired captain augmenting his pension with a shipkeeper’s salary. (But he had been a shipkeeper himself although he had been neither old nor retired. He had needed the money.)

  “Is your airlock ready?” he asked. “We will board as soon as we’re suited up.”

  “Opening outer door now,” came the reply.

  Little Sister was on station, maintaining the correct distance off. In the cabin Pinnett was getting into his spacesuit; it was obviously not the first time that he had been required to wear such a garment. Yosarian, however, required assistance to get into the especially large outfit that had been borrowed for him. When the roboticist was at last suited up Grimes got into his own space armor. He realized, once he had sealed himself in the garment, that it was not the one that he had regarded as his own while he had been Little Sister’s owner and master. The last person to have used it must have been Tamara Haverstock; after all this time a trace of her perfume still persisted. He allowed his memories briefly to take over his mind. Who else had worn this suit? Only Tamara, he decided—and she, now, was no more than a recollection of somebody whom he would never see again, any more than he would ever see again those other lost ladies—Jane Pentecost, Fenella Pruin, Shirl, Darleen, Susie, Una Freeman . . . I must be wanting a woman, he thought, if it takes no more than a fugitive whiff of scent to start me wandering down memory lane . . .

  “Are you all right, Skipper?” asked Williams sharply, his voice distorted but still recognizable as it came from the helmet speaker. The big man had seated himself in the chair vacated by Yosarian, was speaking into the NST transceiver microphone.

  “Of course, Mr. Williams,” said Grimes. He added, lamely, “I was just thinking.” He continued, speaking briskly, “All right. You’re in charge until we get back. We’re locking out now.”

  The small airlock could accommodate two persons—but not when one of the pair was as bulky as Yosarian. Grimes and Pinnett, therefore, went out first after Grimes had told the roboticist that, according to protocol, he, as captain, should be last out of the ship. Before long the three men were hanging outside Little Sister’s golden hull, staring at the great hulk of Epsilon Scorpii gleaming against the backdrop of stars. Sunlight was reflected from most of her shell but the open airlock door was in shadow. That was all to the good; it made it much easier to see the bright green light that illuminated the chamber.

  “Grimes to Pinnett. Go!” ordered Grimes.

  Pinnett went. He handled himself not unskillfully, launching himself into the void with an economically short blast from his suit reaction unit, making only one trajectory adjustment before he braked himself just outside the open airlock door. Grimes watched him, his figure in black silhouette against the green illumination, as he pulled himself into the chamber.

  “You next, Mr. Yosarian,” said Grimes.

  “I . . . I don’t think . . .” Then, in a burst of embarrassed frankness, “This is the first time that I’ve done this sort of thing . . .”

  “So we take no risks,” said Grimes.

  He positioned himself behind the fat man, put both gloved hands on the other’s armored shoulders, took a firm grip.

  He said, “Whatever you do, don’t touch your reaction-unit controls. I don’t want a hole blasted in my belly. Just relax . . .”

  Pushing Yosarian before him, he jetted toward Epsilon Scorpii. The short flight was a clumsy one. He was grateful that there were not many witnesses. He managed to turn around when halfway to his objective, fired a short braking blast. He missed the open doorway, fetched up with a clang on the ship’s side a meter from the rim. Fortunately Pinnett was spaceman enough—like most of the Interstellar Transport Commission’s managers he had done his stint as a ship’s purser—to extend a helping hand, pulling Grimes and his bulky, ungainly tow into the chamber.

  There was ample room for all of them in the airlock and they were able to get themselves sorted out, all standing the same way up, their magnetically soled boots holding them to the deck. The outer door closed and the illumination changed from green to red, indicating that they were in a hard vacuum environment. It acquired a yellowish tinge, became amber, showing that atmosphere was being fed into the chamber. It became green once more.

  The inner door opened.

  The shipkeeper was waiting to receive them.

  She spoke into the little transceiver that she was wearing on her left wrist.

  “Come in,” she said sourly. “This is Liberty Hall. You can spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard. I hope that one of you is an engineer. The autochef is playing up again. I’ve lost count of the number of times that I’ve reported it. And isn’t it time that I got some new spools for the playmaster? And . . .”

  Grimes stared at her. She was wearing a well-filled T-shirt and very short shorts. The sandals on her rather large feet were secured by string, the original straps being no more than broken ends. Her free-floating hair made a dingy green halo about her head. A pair of vividly green eyes glared at the boarders. Even her skin—and there was plenty of it on view—had a greenish tinge. She would have been a good-looking enough wench, thought Grimes, had she been cleaner (to judge from the state of her shirt and even her face she was a messy feeder), had her expression been less surly. But even after a bath and looking happy she would have been too strong featured to suit his taste in women.

  A Donegalan, he decided. (He had visited New Donegal once, during his career in the Survey Service.) Human ancestry, but with a slight genetic drift from the norm. A woman-dominated society. No spaceships of Donegalan registry but, each year, a few promising girls sent to the Antarctic Academy on Earth—where the Commandant and his officers made sure that none of them did well enough to graduate into the Survey Service. Most of them, however, did qualify for entry into the Interstellar Transport Commission and other shipping lines. There was more than male chauvinism involved in the Academy’s attitude toward the Donegalans. They were notorious for always carrying chips on their shoulders, and such an attitude on the part of junior officers could seriously impair the efficient running of a warship.

  Faceplates were opened.

  “Ms. Connellan,” said Pinnett, “this is Captain Grimes.” Grimes nodded. “And Mr. Yosarian . . .” The roboticist managed, even in his bulky spacesuit, a quite courtly bow. Pinnett went on, “Ms. Connellan is one of our second officers . . .”

  “Demoted to watchpe
rson,” she snarled. “I’ve a Master’s ticket—and this is the best job that the bloody Commission can find for me!”

  “Shipkeeping officer,” Pinnett corrected her. “With very generous hard-lying money over and above your salary.”

  “Which I earn, in this rustbucket where damn all works the way that it should!”

  “What exactly is not working, Ms. Connellan?” asked Grimes pleasantly.

  “The autochef, for a start. And the NST transceiver only works if you know just where to give it a clout. You were lucky that it wasn’t on the blink when you came up from Port Southern; the last time that you condescended to call on me, Mr. Pinnett, you had to hammer on the control-room viewports to attract my attention. Then, a couple of days ago, I tried to actuate the Carlotti transceiver, just so that I could find out what ships are around. It just spat sparks at me and died. Oh, and just to pass the time I’ve been browsing through the logs. It seems that Captain Taine had one helluva job establishing this wreck in orbit. I know that he’s not the best ship handler in the universe but the fact that the innies were playing up made him even worse than usual. And . . .”

  “That will do, Ms. Connellan,” snarled Pinnett. “That will do!”

  “Like hell it will. What about the nutrient pumps for the tissue culture vats? I’ve had to dump the lamb and the beef and the pork. Would you like chicken for every meal?”

  “That will do!”

  “It will not do, Mr. Pinnett. I demand that you find me a deep space appointment.”

  “I am not the Commission’s astronautical superintendent, Ms. Connellan.”

  “Too right you’re not. But you’re a planetary manager, aren’t you? Somebody in the top office must listen to you sometimes.”

  “Captain Grimes,” said Pinnett, trying hard to ignore the irate shipkeeper, “may I suggest that we start the tour of inspection?”

  “It’s what we came here for,” said Grimes. “Ms. Connellan, will you lead the way? We’ll start in the control room and work aft.”

  “Are you really thinking of buying this . . . thing?” asked the girl interestedly. “You must have more money than sense.”