Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III (63 page)

“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 snarled 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.

“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?”