Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III

by A Bertram Chandler

“But even if you aren’t snooping you must pick things up, without trying to or wanting to.”

  “But I am not supposed to pass what I . . . hear on to anybody else.” He laughed softly. “All right, all right. I know, and you know, that in the Survey Service the PCO is the captain’s ears. It’s no secret that we’re fast getting to the stage where everybody hates everybody. Well, almost everybody. The honeymoon’s not over yet for Mr. Williams and Ms. Granadu—and it’s been going on for quite a while. Ms. Connellan? She despises the men she uses, just as they despise her. Oh, I know that she kicked up a song and dance when Mr. Venner made a mess of Mr. Paulus—but that was only because she resented having her property damaged by somebody else . . .”

  “Never mind the moral issues, Mr. Mayhew. What I want to know is this. If—if—Admiral Damien’s plot succeeds, if I’m admitted to Drongo Kane’s gang of pirates, what about my crew?”

  “No real worries there, Captain. Pirates and privateersmen have usually been malcontents. Of course, there is the danger of mutiny—but not even warships of the Federation Survey Service are immune to that.”

  “No need to remind me, Mr. Mayhew.”

  Mayhew ignored this. “In the case of the Discovery mutiny, Captain, there was an officer quite capable of taking over the command of the ship from you. Here there is not. Your Chief Officer, Mr. Williams, is personally loyal to his Captain. Your Third Officer, Mr. Venner, is loyal to the Survey Serviceto you, as long as you are his legally appointed commander. The Green Hornet? There’s no loyalty there—but, assuming that the engineers do think of mutiny they have no confidence in Ms. Connellan’s abilities. The feeling is that she couldn’t navigate a plastic duck across a bathtub.”

  “No more could she. I have known many extremely capable women, but she is not one of them.”

  “They are, though,” said Mayhew, looking from the solidograph to the golden figurine.

  “Yes,” agreed Grimes. He thought, I could do with either one of them here, although not both at once . . .

  Mayhew said, “I don’t think that a Police Commissioner, an ex-Federation Sky Marshal, would approve of privateering.”

  Grimes laughed. “Come to that, she didn’t approve of me much. Although, if it hadn’t been for her, I’d never have lifted from Port Southern on time.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mayhew, “she had her orders.”

  “You mean that Damien—may the Odd Gods of the Galaxy look sideways at him!—was behind my getting the contract to carry Survey Service records from Austral to Earth?”

  “It is hard to keep secrets from a telepath,” said Mayhew. “But our beloved Admiral had no hand in your purchase of this ship. He’s just an opportunist.”

  And Damien, thought Grimes, could have had nothing to do with the truly beautiful gift that Yosarian and Una Freeman, jointly, had presented to him. He got up from his chair, carefully lifted the golden cyclist and her steed down from the shelf, set her gently on the carpeted desk.

  “Ride,” he ordered. “Ride. Round and round . . .”

  Fascinated, he and Mayhew watched as she circumnavigated the day cabin, slowly at first and then with increasing speed. Grimes remembered the real Una in the garden, the Eden from which they had been evicted by the robot deity. He remembered her graceful nudity in delightful contrast to the equally graceful machine that she had ridden.

  “There’s something odd about that bicycle . . .” murmured Mayhew.

  Keep out my memories! thought Grimes. Yes, there had been something odd about the bicycles that both of them had ridden on that faraway world in another universe. He recalled that final showdown when he had been obliged to fight the things . . .

  “Sorry, Captain,” apologized Mayhew. “But I couldn’t help getting pictures of you as a naked bullfighter, with a bicycle playing the bull!”

  Chapter 21

  THERE WAS THE UNPLEASANTNESS when Kate Connellan, who had taken too much drink before dinner, expressed her disapproval of the menu by hurling the contents of a bowl of goulash at Magda Granadu. It missed its target but liberally bespattered the unfortunate Mr. Stewart. For this assault by her upon a fellow officer Grimes imposed as high a fine as he legally could. There were mutterings from those who had been or were currently recipients of the Green Hornet’s favors but even they knew that she had overstepped the mark. Then there was an undignified brawl between Mr. Singh, Mr. Trantor and Mr. Denning, two of whom disapproved of Ms. Connellan’s latest change of sleeping partners. This was broken up by Mr. Venner. There was the screaming match when the second mate discovered that the potato plants, installed in one of the hydroponics tanks before departure from Port Woomera, had died. Ms. Connellan alleged that these hapless vegetables had been murdered by Ms. Granadu so as to deprive her of New Donegal’s renowned culinary delicacy.

  “As long as you can have your stinking garlic,” she had yelled at Grimes, “you’re happy!”

  There was another entry in the Official Log, another fine.

  Grimes was not the only one relieved when, at long last, her interstellar drive shut down, Sister Sue was in orbit about El Dorado. His officers were at landing stations, Aerospace Control had granted permission for descent.

  “All is ready for you at Bluewater Spaceport, Sister Sue,” said the mechanical voice.

  “Sounds like a robot, Skipper,” commented Williams.

  “Probably is,” replied Grimes. “A small human population, living in great luxury, pampered by hordes of mechanical servitors. At least, that’s the way that it was when I was here last, years ago . . .”

  “Bluewater Spaceport . . . A pretty name,” said Williams. “According to the directory there’s another port, on the other side of the planet. Port Kane . . .”

  “That’s new,” Grimes told him.

  “I don’t suppose that we shall be seeing it,” said Williams.

  You’ve a surprise coming, thought Grimes.

  He applied just enough thrust to nudge Sister Sue out of her orbit and she began her controlled fall, dropping down through the clear morning sky toward the almost perfect azure ellipse, visible even from this altitude, of Lake Bluewater. The last time that he had made a landing here it had been in an almost uncontrollable, rocket-powered reentry vehicle; in those days such archaic contraptions were still carried by major warships and some captains liked to see them exercised now and again. Grimes and another junior officer had been sent down in this dynosoar, as the thing was called, to be the advance landing party for the cruiser Aries. He had splashed down into the lake and had fallen foul of the Princess Marlene von Stolzberg, who had been enjoying an afternoon’s water skiing, and her watchbirds.

  He found that he was remembering that day very well. Would she remember him? he wondered. He had heard from her only once since that long ago visit to El Dorado. Would she want to be reminded, now, of what had briefly flared between them? Would she have told her son who his father was? His thoughts drifted away from her to another El Doradan lady, Michelle, Baroness d’Estang. Was she on planet? He had last seen her, not so long ago, on New Venusberg and she had strongly hinted that there was unfinished business between them.

  He envisaged a cozy little dinner party aboard his ship at which his only two guests would be the princess and the baroness. He chuckled.

  “What’s the joke, Skipper?” asked Williams.

  “Nothing,” said Grimes.

  “Aerospace Control to Sister Sue,” came the voice from the NST transceiver. “Surface wind northeast at three knots. Unlimited visibility . . .”

  “I can see that,” grumbled Grimes. Then, to old Mr. Stewart who was seated by the transceiver, “Acknowledge; please. Oh, just ask him—or it—not to foul up my landing with any flocks of tin sparrows . . .”

  “Sir?”

  “You heard me.”

  Williams, Venner and Ms. Connellan looked curiously at Grimes as the radio officer repeated the request.

  The reply was not long in coming.

  “If your sec
ond landing on this world is as eventful as your first, Captain Grimes, the fault will be yours alone.”

  Williams laughed. “They seem to know all about you, Skipper!”

  “The Monitor,” said Grimes coldly, “sees all, hears all, knows all and remembers all.”

  “The Monitor?”

  “The electronic intelligence that runs this world—although the human El Doradans are quick to point out that it is only a servant, not a master.”

  He returned his attention to the controls. Sister Sue was dropping fast, the arrhythmic beat of her inertial drive little more than an irritable mutter. Visible in the stern view screen was Lake Bluewater with, on its northern shore, the huddle of white buildings that was the spaceport, the tall control tower. A regular flashing of scarlet light indicated the position of the beacons; soon, now, they would be visible as three individual lights set in a triangle. Through the viewports could be seen the evidence of what great wealth and expensive technology can do to a once barren world. This planet, when first purchased by the El Dorado Corporation, had been absolutely lifeless; now it was all park and garden, cultivated field and orchard. There were lakes and rivers, small seas, ranges of snow-capped mountains, forests. There was only one city, named after the planet, about fifty kilometers north of the spaceport, but there were chateaux, castles and manor houses sparsely scattered throughout the countryside. There were mines and factories—El Dorado was rich in valuable minerals—but all industry was underground.

  “What was all that about tin sparrows, Skipper?” asked Williams.

  “Watchbirds,” replied Grimes. “Every El Doradan has his team of personal guardians. The flying ones have modified and improved avian brains in mechanical bodies.”

  “So if you made a pass at a local lady,” said Williams, “you’d be liable to have your eyes pecked out.”

  “You’ve got a one-track mind . . .” Grimes was going to say, but the Green Hornet got in first with, “No more than you’d deserve!”

  Venner laughed and old Mr. Stewart chuckled.

  “Quiet, all of you!” snapped Grimes. “Keep your eyes on your instruments. Let me know at once if you pick up any flying objects on the radar, Mr. Venner. Let me have frequent radar altimeter readings Ms. Connellan.” (This last was not really necessary as there was a read-out in the stern view screen.) “Maintain an all round visual lookout, Mr. Williams.”

  “Anybody would think this was a bloody battle cruise,” muttered the second mate.

  Grimes glared at her. “I’ve still plenty of pages in the official log,” he said.

  Sister Sue continued her controlled fall. The marker beacons showed now as a triangle of three bright, blinking lights. Grimes brought this configuration to the very center of the screen. He stepped up the magnification. There were no other ships in port; the apron was a wide, empty stretch of grey concrete. A long streamer of white smoke was now issuing from a tall pipe at the edge of the landing field. It became particolored—an emission of white, then of red, then black, then white again. It gave an indication of wind velocity as well as of direction.

  Compensating for drift was no problem. The inertial drive became louder as Grimes increased vertical thrust, slowing the rate of descent. He watched the diminishing series of figures to one side of the screen, noted irritably that the Green Hornet, reporting those same readings from the radar altimeter, was lagging badly. But this was not, after all, a battle cruiser.

  Yet.

  Down crawled the ship, down, at the finish almost hovering rather than falling. The tips of her vanes at last gently kissed the concrete. Grimes cut the drive. Sister Sue shuddered and sighed, then relaxed in the tripodal cradle of her landing gear. There were the usual minor creakings and muted rattlings as weight readjusted itself.

  “Finished with engines,” said Grimes, then refilled and relit his pipe.

  Chapter 22

  AT A NORMAL SPACEPORT, on a normal planet, ground cars would have brought the various officials—Customs, Immigration, Port Health and all the rest of them—out to a newly arrived ship. Here, at Port Bluewater, there was only a solitary figure walking out from one of the white office buildings, pacing slowly over the grey apron. It was wearing a uniform of some kind, black with gold trimmings. It looked human.

  Grimes went to the big mounted binoculars, swung and focused them. He looked at the dull-gleaming, pewter-colored face under the gold-embellished peak of the cap. A robot. So none of this world’s human inhabitants considered it worth their while to receive him and his ship.

  He said to Mr. Venner, “Go down to the after airlock to meet that . . . that tin Port Captain. Take him—no, it—up to Ms. Granadu’s office. She’ll have all the necessary papers ready for our Inward Clearance.” He allowed himself a laugh. “At least I shan’t be put to the expense of free drinks and smokes for a pack of bludging human officials!”

  “He might want to plug into a power point, Skipper, to get a free charge,” said Williams.

  Venner left the control room. The Green Hornet began, in a desultory manner, to tidy things away.

  Williams said, “I suppose I’d better go down to the office myself. There might be some word about discharging arrangements.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Grimes.

  Anywhere but here he would have waited in his day cabin for the ship’s agent, there to discuss matters over coffee or something stronger. He did not, however, feel like entertaining in his own quarters what he had already categorized as an uppity robot.

  The elevator was not immediately available so Grimes and Williams made their descent into the body of the ship by the spiral staircase. Magda was waiting in her office. All necessary documentation was arranged neatly on her desk, as also was a box of cigarillos. On a table to one side was a steaming coffee pot with the necessary crockery and containers of cream and sugar.

  “You can put those away,” said Grimes, gesturing.

  “Not so fast, Skipper,” said Williams. “We can use some coffee. And I’m never averse to a free smoke.”

  “All right. Pour me a cup while you’re about it.”

  “Why should the coffee and the smokes not be required, Captain?” asked the catering officer.

  “You’ll see,” said Grimes.

  Venner appeared in the doorway.

  “The Port Captain, sir,” he announced, then withdrew.

  The robot entered.

  It said, in a quite pleasant, not overly mechanical voice, “Yes. That is my title. I am also Collector of Customs, Port Health Officer and Immigration Officer. If I may be allowed to scan your papers I shall soon be able to inform you whether or not all is in order.”

  Grimes had seen the thing’s like before, both on El Dorado and aboard the Baroness d’Estang’s spaceyacht. It could have been a handsome, well-made human being with a metallic skin. Williams and Magda, however, were familiar only with the common or garden varieties of robot, only crudely humanoid at the best. (They had seen, of course, the exquisite, golden figurine that had been given to Grimes before lift-off from Port Southern—but she was only a beautiful miniature, not life-size.)

  The automaton moved to the desk, went through the papers like a professional gambler dealing playing cards. It seemed to have no trouble reading things upside down. After only seconds the documents were back in their original order.

  The subtly metallic voice said, “You are cleared inwards.”

  “Don’t I get certification?” asked Grimes.

  “That, Captain, is not required. The Monitor has cleared you. You will, however, be issued the usual Outward Clearance documents prior to your departure.”

  “When will discharge be started?” asked Grimes.

  “Your cargo is not urgently required, Captain. Perhaps tomorrow the shipment of caviar will be off-loaded. The other items? At the moment there is no warehouse space available.”

  “So I have to sit here,” exploded Grimes, “with my ship not earning money, paying wages to my crew and f
eeding them . . . And you, I suppose, will be charging port dues.”

  “Of course, Captain.”

  “Demurrage . . . ?” wondered Grimes aloud. “Compensation for delay?”

  “That is not applicable in your circumstances.”

  Perhaps, perhaps not, Grimes thought. He would have to make a careful study of The Shipmaster’s Business Companion.

  “Another point,” he said. “I was last here as an officer of one of the Survey Service’s cruisers.”

  “We are aware of that, Captain Grimes.”

  “ . . . so I had no cause to find out what facilities are available to merchant vessels. Is there a Shipping Office here? I may have to pay off one of my officers.”

  “There is no Shipping Office here. In any case, as you should know, outworlders may not be dumped on this planet. And that seems to have concluded all immediate business. Should you require stores, repairs or other services you may call the Port Master’s office on your NST. I wish you good day.”

  “Is my NST hooked up to the planetary telephone service?” asked Grimes.

  “It is not, Captain. You may, however, use the telephonic facilities in the reception area in the main office. Such calls will be charged against you. Again I wish you a good day.”

  The Port Captain turned, strode out of the office. They could hear his (its) footsteps, too heavy to be those of a human being, in the alleyway outside—and, for quite a while, on the treads of the spiral staircase leading down to the after airlock.

  Grimes, Billy Williams and Magda Granadu looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

  Williams said, “I don’t think that I shall like this world, Skipper, where even robots treat us like dirt.”

  “The last time I came here,” said Grimes, “there was a human Port Captain. The Comte Henri de Messigny. He wasn’t must better than his tin successor.”

  “What happened to the . . . Comte?”

  “He . . . died.”

  “Were you involved, Skipper?”

  “Yes,” said Grimes shortly. “And now, Mr. Williams, you’d better see to it that the caviar is ready for discharge when somebody condescends to send a team of stowbots out to us. And you, Ms. Granadu, can let the Port Captain’s office know what stores you require. Try to confine yourself to inexpensive items, will you? That is, if anything here is inexpensive . . . Mphm.” He poured himself another mug of coffee, sipped it thoughtfully. “I think I’ll take a stroll ashore,” he went on. “I might make one or two phone calls . . .”