Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III (59 page)

They would tell Captain McKillick that they had visited Vulcan Island in the rented camperfly. Returning to the mainland they had seen, on the surface, a huge sea beast, a Moby Dick. Fenella Pruin—Prunella Fenn, rather—had wanted a closer look at the monster. They had been flying only a few meters above it when it had lashed up and out with its tail, which had done the aircraft no good at all. It had crashed into the water and broken up.

Grimes and Fenella had gotten away, using one of the camperfly’s wings as a raft. (Although the gas cell was holed there was still sufficient buoyancy for it to stay afloat.) They had drifted on to a small island and had stayed there, living on fruit and roots and shellfish, until they had been fortunate enough to attract the attention of the passing
Triton.
Then, during the voyage to Troy, there had been another unfortunate incident. Grimes, sunbathing on the upper deck, had been recognised by one of the crew—probably that princess whom he had first met in Lady Luck’s—of a Shaara blimp on a Moby Dick hunting expedition. This spiteful being had taken a shot at him with the blimp’s rocket harpoon. She had missed Grimes but scored a hit on
Triton’s
wheelhouse. When the wire had parted an end of it, whipping back, had killed or injured a few hapless Shaara who had left their airship to make an assessment of the situation.

It was decided that Fenella would try to call
Triton,
from a public call box, as soon as they got to Port Aphrodite. Onslow had told her that he intended to have his damaged transceiver replaced that night; in fact the technicians had been due on board only half an hour or so after the fugitives had left the ship. The captain would then be able to amend his story to make it agree with theirs.

The car arrived at the Port Aphrodite station.

There were people on the platform awaiting the transport to carry them to various pleasure establishments. None of these was at all interested in Grimes and his three companions. There were public call boxes at the head of the escalator. There were a few moments of panic when Grimes could not find the much depleted notecase that he had tucked into the waistband of his sarong. While he was fumbling it fell to the floor between his feet. He picked it up, gave it to Fenella.

She went into the box. Grimes and the two New Alicians watched her through the transparent door and walls as she fed one of the plastic bills into the slot. The screen lit up, showing the face—that of a silver woman—of the roboperator. Fenella said something. The robot replied, the metallic lips moving mechanically. There was a short delay. Then the original picture in the screen faded, was replaced by one of the bearded face of Captain Onslow. He was not alone; there was a brief glimpse of a head of luxuriant blonde hair in the background, of smooth, sun-tanned skin.
A girl in every port,
thought Grimes amusedly,
as well as girls between ports wherever possible . . .

Onslow did not seem at all pleased to be seeing and hearing his recent lady love so soon after the fond farewell. His initial scowl, however, was replaced by a somewhat spurious smile. He said little, let Fenella do most of the talking. He looked relieved when the conversation was terminated.

Fenella came out of the box. She seemed amused rather than otherwise. She said, “He didn’t waste much time, did he? Off with the old love, on with the new . . . Just one of those things . . .”

“Ships that pass in the night,” said Grimes.

“Very
funny!” she snapped. “Very funny. Well. Anyhow, he’s agreed to change his story the next time that anybody asks him how his wheelhouse got busted up. I didn’t have much trouble persuading him. He was wanting to get back to that brazen floosie he had with him.”

“Mphm.”

“And now let’s get back to
your
precious ship.”

They left the station, walked out into the soft night. The spaceport was almost as it had been when they left it. There were two freighters working cargo with glaring lights all about them. There were the cruise liners. There was
Little Sister,
goldenly agleam in her berth between two big ships. One was the Shaara vessel that had been there when they arrived. The other was one of the Interstellar Transport Commission’s Beta Class passenger liners. But was she still owned by the Commission? A flag, softly floodlit, flew from the telescopic mast extruded from her sharp stem, an ensign of imperial purple with, in glowing gold, the CR monogram, the symbol representing the Credit, the galaxy-wide monetary unit.

It was the flag of El Dorado.

And why not? The El Doradans, Grimes well knew, enjoyed kinky sex as much as anybody and could afford to pay for it better than most.

But the name of the ship . . .

He could read it now, in golden (of course) letters on the burnished grey shellplating under the control room.

Southerly Buster III
. . .

Southerly Buster . . .
Drongo Kane . . .

And Kane, through his Able Enterprises, pulled far heavier Gs on New Venusberg than Grimes or even Fenella Pruin.

He said as much to her as they walked towards
Little Sister.
She agreed with him but said that it was of no consequence; once they got off this cesspit of a planet she would lift the lid off the whole, stinking can of worms.

There were guards around
Little Sister—
not only a Customs officer but two armed men in uniform—modelled on that of the Federation Marines—of the spaceport police.

One of these said sharply, “Halt! I’m sorry, gentlepersons, but nobody is allowed near this ship.”

“I am the master,” said Grimes, with deliberate pomposity. “I am Captain Grimes.”

“
If
you are,” said the guard, “you don’t look anything like your photograph. Captain Grimes has
ears.
Yours are quite normal.”

“The airlock door is coded to me,” said Grimes. “It will let me in.”

“I’m sorry, sir. My orders are that nobody, but nobody, is to approach this ship.”

“But I am Captain Grimes. I am the master. The owner.”

“So
you
say, sir.”

“I am Prunella Fenn,” said Fenella Pruin.

“Somebody else who doesn’t look much like her photograph!” laughed the guard.

“Captain McKillick will soon identify me—but I most certainly do not wish to be kept hanging around until tomorrow morning!”

“You can see the Port Captain now, lady. He is in his office, still. Some business over the El Doradan ship.”

“All right,” she said. “We’ll see him now. And you’ll soon find out who we are.”

***

McKillick, as the guard had said, was in his office. Apart from those with whom he was discussing business the administration block was empty; there was nobody to detain Grimes and the three women on their way up to the top floor.

The office door opened silently as they approached it. The Port Captain, studying papers spread over his desk, did not notice. Neither did the two people, a man and a woman, sitting in chairs facing him. The man was wearing a purple uniform with heavy golden epaulettes. The woman was clad in translucent white beneath which her body glowed goldenly. Diamonds glittered in the braided coronet of her glossy auburn hair, in the pendants hanging from her ears.

“As far as I know,” the fat McKillick was saying, “Captain Grimes and his passenger, Prunella Fenn, were lost when their hired camperfly crashed in the sea shortly after lifting off from Vulcan Island. I blame myself for the tragedy. I should never have allowed them to leave Port Aphrodite. Grimes I did not trust. The man was no more than an adventurer, battening on wealthy women . . .”

“Captain Grimes,” said the woman coldly, “was—or is—an extremely competent shipmaster.”

“Be that as it may,” went on McKillick, “that camperfly did crash in the sea. A search was made but only the wreckage of the aircraft was found. The cause of the disaster could only have been pilot error.”

“Indeed?” the woman said. “The story that
we
heard, in a Carlottigram from Captain Dreeble of
Willy Willy,
was a rather different one. That camperfly may or may not have crashed—but Captain Grimes wasn’t in it. At this moment he’s probably one of the star attractions at the Colosseum—if he’s still alive, that is. He had better be.”

“He will be,” growled her companion. “His famous luck more than compensates for his many shortcomings.”

“Mphm,” grunted Grimes indignantly.

McKillick lifted his eyes from the papers on his desk. He stared at Grimes and the three women. The purple-uniformed man and his companion swivelled around in their chairs, also stared.

“Grimes . . .” murmured Drongo Kane at last. “Live, on stage, in person. Singing and dancing. But what’s happened to your ears?”

“Grimes . . .” said the Baroness. “Grimes. I was very worried when Commodore Kane got that message about you from Captain Dreeble, especially when he told me about the Colosseum. I’d no idea—believe me, John, I had no idea—what sort of entertainments are available on this planet . . .”

“Grimes!” shouted McKillick. “Grimes! But who are those people with you? What did you do to Prue?” He was on his feet, looking as though he were about to clamber over his desk to shake the truth out of
Little Sister’s
captain. “Where is she? Tell me, damn you, where is she?”

“Here,” said Fenella.

“But . . . You?”

She snatched off her disguising wig.

“Prue! You’re safe! You’re safe!” McKillick did not clamber over his desk but ran clumsily around it. He threw his arms about her, pulled her to him in a bear-like hug. Her face wrinkled in distaste.

“Very touching,” remarked Drongo Kane, his carelessly assembled features under the straw-coloured hair creased in a sardonic smile. Then, to the Baroness, “I told you that Grimes would muddle through, as usual, Micky.”

Fenella Pruin managed to extricate herself from McKillick’s embrace. “Later, Jock,” she said. “Later.” Then, to Grimes, “This appears to be some sort of reunion as far as you’re concerned. Would you mind doing the introductions?”

“Er, yes, Fenella—sorry. Prunella—may I present you to the Baroness Michelle d’Estang of El Dorado?”

“Am I supposed to curtsey?” asked Fenella.

The Baroness looked at her disdainfully. “You may if you wish.”

“And to Captain Drongo Kane . . .”

“You’ve got it wrong, cobber,” said that gentleman. “It’s Commodore Baron Kane, of the El Doradan Navy.”

“Commanding a merchant ship,” sneered Grimes. “A cruise liner. A spaceborne gin palace.”

Kane laughed. “A cruise liner she may be—but she’s rated as an auxiliary cruiser. But who are those two sheilahs with you?”

“Shirl,” said Shirl.

“Darleen,” said Darleen.

“New Alicians, ain’t you, with those faces and accents? Matilda’s Stepchildren. What are two nice girls like you doing mixed up with Grimes and this muckraking news hen?”

“Muckraking news hen?” asked McKillick bewilderedly.

“Didn’t you know, Captain? This is Fenella Pruin, the pride and joy of some local rag on her home planet and the even greater pride and joy of
Star Scandals.
It wouldn’t at all surprise me if you were one of her Faithful Readers. She’s just been using you, the same as she’s used men on hundreds of worlds. She’s all set and ready to spill all the unsavoury beans about New Venusberg.”

“And what about you, Commodore or Baron or whatever you call yourself?” she shouted. “What about
your
interests here? Your nasty little slave trade from New Alice to the New Venusberg brothels—and worse!”

“Slave trade, my dear? But the New Alicians are underpeople, have no more rights than animals. The ships that bring them here are cattle ships, not slave ships.”

“Are they?
Are they?
Wasn’t it ruled, some many years ago, that underpeople are to be reclassified as human as long as interbreeding between them and true humans is possible?”

“In this case it ain’t, Miss Pruin. It’s obviously impossible. The ancestors of the New Alicians were marsupials, not placental mammals.”

“Their
ancestors,
Mr. Kane. And, in any case, I imagine that the crews of your slave ships—sorry, cattle ships—aren’t too fussy about having intercourse with them.”

“Of course not. I don’t recruit my personnel from Sunday schools.”

“You can say that again. But I have seen—I’m not telling you where—a New Alician boy who bears a very strong resemblance to his father.
To your
precious Captain Dreeble.”

Kane laughed, although he looked uneasy. “I’ve often entertained doubts about Dreeble’s own ancestry,” he said.

Grimes laughed. “Morrowvia all over again, isn’t it?”

“So the New Alicians are legally human,” remarked the Baroness. “So what? All that we have to do is get them to sign proper contracts. What does worry me is that Captain Grimes’ current inamorata—I’ve noticed before that he has the most deplorable taste in women!—is all set and ready to make a big splash in her gutter rag about New Venusberg. Once again—so what?

“El Dorado has big money invested in this world and I, speaking for my fellow El Doradans, shall welcome the free advertising that New Venusberg will be getting. But . . .” she turned to Kane . . . “there will have to be a thorough housecleaning. I did not know of the existence of such establishments as the Colosseum and the Snuff Palace until you told me.” Suddenly there was icy contempt in her voice. With pleasure Grimes saw that she was making Kane squirm as, so often during the days aboard
The Far Traveller,
she had made him squirm.
“You
thought that it was a great joke that Grimes would end his days slaughtered in the arena. We are two of a kind, I know—but only up to a point. And beyond that point I refuse to pass. There will be a thorough investigation of the state of affairs on New Venusberg—but without overmuch publicity.”

“Yes, Micky,” said Kane.

McKillick was at last able to make himself heard. “Prunella!” he bleated to Fenella Pruin. “How could you have done this to
me?
You—a spy!”

“The name is Fenella Pruin,” she told him coldly.

“But, Prunella . . .”