Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III (65 page)

Grimes began to round up the wandering spanners and such, returning them to their proper places on the shadow board. Yosarian assisted. Although the roboticist was not used to working in the absence of gravity, he could not bear to see machinery neglected.

Neither Ms. Connellan nor Pinnett made any attempt to lend a hand.

Farther aft it was discovered that one of the propellant tanks for the auxiliary reaction drive had been leaking; that level would have been a suitable habitat for goldfish but not for human beings.

“
If
I am going to buy this ship,” said Grimes, “I shall require new certificates of spaceworthiness.”

“But the last annual survey,” the manager told him, “was only five standard months ago.”

“Then a lot happened in that five months,” said Grimes. “And one helluva lot, in the way of maintenance, didn’t happen!”

***

Back at his hotel in Port Southern Grimes conferred with Billy Williams and Magda Granadu.

“Pinnett will come down in price,” he said. “But it was just as well that we had Yosarian along as a sort of independent witness. He can bring some pressure to bear.”

“I’m sorry that I didn’t get to meet that shipkeeping officer,” said Williams. “To judge from what I heard of her on the NST radio it’s a bloody good thing that she doesn’t come with the ship!”

“I’ve shipped with Donegalans,” said Magda. “They’re bitter, resentful. On New Donegal they’re on top. They’re just not used to accepting men as equals, let along superiors. Too, this Connellan woman knows that the shipkeeping job was just the Commission’s way of sweeping her under the carpet.”

“Well,” Grimes said, “they’ll just have to find her another deep space posting when they sell the ship from around her.” He grinned. “And may the Odd Gods of the Galaxy help the unfortunate master who gets saddled with her!”

Chapter 5

THE DETAILS OF THE SALE
were ironed out with surprising ease and for a sum quite a bit lower than the original asking price. Yosarian pulled considerable Gs on his home world and even the mighty Interstellar Transport Commission listened when he talked. One of his engineers, an ex-spacer, went out to
Epsilon Scorpii
to make sure that the ship’s inertial drive was in proper working order, then acted as engine room chief while Grimes, assisted by Bill Williams, brought the vessel down to the spaceport. (During this operation Ms. Connellan made it quite clear that she was employed as a shipkeeping officer only and was not required to lend a hand with any maneuvers.)

So Grimes had his “new” ship sitting on the apron, handy to the spaceport workshops whose facilities he was using. The obnoxious Ms. Connellan was no longer on board; she had left, with her baggage, as soon as the ramp was down. It was now up to Pinnett and the Commission to find for her suitable employment.

The next four weeks were busy ones. Grimes and Williams went through the ship from stem to stern with the Lloyd’s and Interstellar Federal surveyors, pointing out the things that needed doing while Pinnett, who had reluctantly agreed that the Commission would bear the cost of making the vessel spaceworthy, tried to argue that many of the proposed repairs were only of a cosmetic nature. The trouble was that the Federation surveyor tended to side with him, saying more than once to Grimes, “You aren’t in the Survey Service now, Captain. This isn’t a warship, you know.”

Grimes got his way (he usually did) but it was costing him much more than he had anticipated. For example, he had been obliged to foot the bill for making the auxiliary reaction drive fully operational, such an additional means of propulsion being no longer mandatory for merchant vessels. The charge for the work involved was not a small one.

He had been temporarily rich but he was no longer so; what money had been left after the purchase of
Epsilon Scorpii
was fast being whittled away. If his luck ran out again he would be back where he started—only instead of having a golden white elephant on his hands it would be one constructed of more conventional and far less valuable materials.

Nonetheless he felt an upsurge of pride when she was renamed. To have the new nomenclature fabricated in golden letters was a needless extravagance but one that pleased him. It was a tribute to Big Sister, the almost too human computer-pilot of
The Far Traveler
. It was also a sort of memento of
Little Sister
. As for the second half of the name, it was just there because it went naturally with the first, Grimes told himself—although the lady so commemorated was part of what he was already thinking of as the
Little Sister
period of his life and about the only one from whom he had not broken off in acrimonious circumstances.

SISTER SUE . . .

He stood on the apron looking up at his ship, at the golden name on the grey hull gleaming brightly in the afternoon sunlight. Williams joined him there.

“Very pretty, Skipper,” he commented. Then, “Who was Sue?”

“Just a girl,” said Grimes.

“She must have been somebody special to get a ship named after her . . .” Williams shuffled his big feet, then went on, “I’m afraid I’ve bad news for you, Skipper.”

“What now?” demanded Grimes. “What now?”

This was too much, he thought. He now had, not without a struggle, a spaceworfhy ship, a sturdy workhorse, and all that he needed was a little bit of luck to make a go of things.

What had happened to his famous luck?

“It’s the manning, Skipper,” Williams said. “We’re all right for engineers. We’ve old Crumley lined up; he’s a bit senile but he’s qualified, a double-headed Chief’s ticket, inertial drive and reaction drive. For the Mannschenn Drive there’s Professor Malleson. He passed for Mannschenn Chief before he came ashore to go teaching. As I told you before, he’s taking his sabbatical leave from the university. Also from the university there’ll be a couple of bright young Ph.D.s to act as his juniors. And we’ve a Sparks, another old-timer, retired years ago but wanting to get back into space . . .”

“So what’s the trouble?”

“In the control room, Skipper. According to the Manning Scale we should have three control-room watchkeeping officers—although we can lift with only two as long as we get a permit. Well, you’ve got me, as mate. You should have got old Captain Binns—he used to be in the Dog Star Line—as second mate. But he got mashed in a ground-car accident last night. At his age it’ll be at least six months before he’s grown a new left arm and right leg.”

“There are times,” said Grimes, “when I strongly suspect that the Odd Gods of the Galaxy don’t like me. So Binns is out. Is there nobody on this benighted planet to fill the gap?”

“Well, er, yes. There is.”

“So what’s all this talk of bad news?”

“The Green Hornet,” said Williams, “has let it be known that she’s had the Interstellar Transport Commission in a big way.”

“The Green Hornet?”

“Kate Connellan. ‘Green Hornet’ is her company nickname. Anyhow, she had a knock-down-and-drag-’em-out row with Pinnett. She resigned—about a microsecond before Pinnett could fire her. And, as far as we’re concerned, she’s qualified and she’s available.”

“Oh,” said Grimes. “Oh.”

Could he possibly afford to wait until somebody more suitable turned up? He could not, he decided. He had been lucky enough to have a consignment of government cargo offered to him, but if he could not lift it by the specified date somebody else would be found to do the job.

“She has a master’s ticket,” said Williams.

“But she’s still an eleven-trip officer,” said Grimes.

“Eleven trips, Skipper? How do you make that out?”

“One out and one home,” Grimes told him.

Chapter 6

ARTICLES WERE OPENED.

Grimes, having done all the autographing required of him in his capacity as captain, stood behind the counter in the shipping office, watching his officers affixing their signatures to the agreement while the shipping master checked their qualifications and last discharges, if any.

Billy Williams was the first to sign. He said cheerfully, “I’ll get back on board, Skipper. They should be just about ready to start the loading.”

Magda Granadu signed and followed the mate out of the office, Mr. Crumley, a frail, white-bearded, bald-headed old man, produced one of the old-fashioned certificates bound in plastic rather than in flexisteel and a discharge book held together with adhesive tape.

“You’ll find that times have changed since you were Chief of the
Far Centaurus
, Mr. Crumley,” said the shipping master cheerfully.

“A ship’s a ship and engines are engines, aren’t they?” grumbled the ancient spaceman.

His three juniors signed. They possessed neither certificates nor discharge books, only diplomas from the Port Southern College of Technology. One of them, Denning, had been employed by Yosarian Robotics, the other two, Singh and Paulus, by the Intracity Transit Corporation. They were squat, swarthy, youngish men who could almost have been triplets—competent mechanics, thought Grimes snobbishly, rather than officers.

Malleson, looking every inch the grey-haired, untidy, stooping, absent-minded professor, signed. His two juniors, tall young men, briskly competent, with fashionably shaven heads and heavily black-rimmed spectacles, signed.

Old Mr. Stewart, the electronic communications officer, signed. His certificate and discharge book were as antique as Mr. Crumley’s.
Shave his head,
thought Grimes,
and stick the hair on his chin and he’d be old Crumley’s double . . .

“You don’t have a doctor, Captain?” asked the shipping master.

“I’ve got three,” said Grimes. “Ph.Ds.”

“Ha ha. But you have tried to find one, haven’t you? A medical doctor, I mean. So I’ll issue you a permit to sanction your lifting off undermanned. You realize, of course, that you’ll have to pay your crew an extra ten credits each a day in lieu of medical services . . . Cheer up, Captain. You’ll be getting it too.”

“But
I’ll
be paying it,” growled Grimes. “Out of one pocket and into the other.”

“Ha ha! Of course. It’s not very often that I get masters who are also owners in here. In fact the only one before you was a Captain Kane. I don’t suppose you’ve ever run across him.” Grimes said nothing and the shipping master, who was checking the entries in the Articles of Agreement, did not see his expression. “H’m. We were talking of permits, weren’t we? I take it that you still haven’t been able to find a third mate . . . And where
is
your second mate, by the way?”

“She was told what time she was to be here,” said Grimes.

“She?”
echoed the shipping master, looking at the preliminary crew list. “Oh. The Green Hornet. But I thought that she was with the Commission.”

“She
was
.”

“And now you’ve got her. Do me a favor, will you, Captain. Don’t bring her back to Port Southern. I’ll never forget the fuss she kicked up when she was paid off from
Delta Crucis
, threatening to sue the Commission, the Department of Interstellar Shipping and the Odd Gods of the Galaxy alone know who else! To begin with she was screaming wrongful dismissal—but, of course she wasn’t being dismissed but transferred. To
Epsilon Scorpii
. Then there was a mistake in her pay sheet—twenty cents, but you’d have thought it was twenty thousand credits. And—”

Grimes looked at his watch.

“I certainly wish that I didn’t have to have her,” he said. “But I have to. Where
is
the bitch?”

“Do you know where she’s staying?”

“Some place called The Rusty Rocket.”

“Cheap,” sneered the shipping master. “And nasty. You can use my phone, Captain, to check up on her. They might know where she’s got to.”

He showed Grimes through to his private office, seated him at the desk. He told Grimes the number to punch. The screen came alive and a sour-faced blonde looked out at them.

“The Rusty Rocket?” asked Grimes.

“This certainly ain’t The Polished Projectile. Waddya want?”

“Is a Ms. Connellan staying with you?”

“She was. She won’t be again. Ever.”

“Where is she now?”

“In the right place for her. Jail. I hope they throw away the key.”

After a little prodding Grimes got the story. The previous night there had been a nasty brawl in the barroom of The Rusty Rocket, the focus of which had been Kate Connellan. There had been damage, injuries. The police had been called. Arrests had been made.

Grimes thanked the woman and disconnected.

He said to the shipping master, “Now I suppose I’ll have to pay her fine or bail or whatever.” He sighed. “More expense.”

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question, Captain. In the old days the police authorities were only too pleased to get rid of drunken spacers as soon as possible—but not anymore. Not since the new Commissioner was appointed. Now any spacer who makes a nuisance of himself—or herself—is given a stiff sentence and has to serve it. Every minute of it.”

Grimes sighed again. He owed no loyalty to the troublesome Ms. Connellan, he told himself. Had her name been on his Articles she would have been one of his people—but she had not yet signed.

He said hopefully, “I see no reason why I shouldn’t lift off with only the mate and myself as control-room watchkeepers. After all, in
Little Sister
there was only me. I was the cook and the captain bold . . .”

“Regulations,” the shipping master told him. “A vessel of
Little Sister’s
tonnage is classified as a spaceyacht, even though she may be gainfully employed. Your
Epsilon Scorpii
—sorry,
Sister Sue
—is a ship. The manning scale calls for a master and three mates. I can issue a permit to allow you to lift with only two mates. But you may not, repeat not, lift with only one qualified control-room officer in addition to yourself.”

“And I must lift on time,” muttered Grimes. “If I don’t the penalty clauses in the charter party will beggar me.” He filled and lit his pipe, puffed furiously. “Do you think that if I made a personal appeal to this Police Commissioner of yours, putting all my cards on the table, it might help?”