Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III (86 page)

“Yes. Go on.”

“There is little more than I can say about the Graf von Stolzberg. He’s young and romantic and an affair with an older woman, such as Captain Agatha Prinn, will do him far more good than harm. Out of uniform and with hardly more than a hint of cosmetics she will be a very attractive woman.”

“Stop harping on it, Mr. Mayhew.”

“Very good, sir. Now, the Countess of Walshingham . . . I’ll describe her this way. If she and our own Green Hornet could swap bodies and accents you’d never know that there had been an exchange. The other three El Doradans are, in their ways, loyal to their planet. She is loyal only to herself. Furthermore she is a man-hater.”

“Another female chauvinist bitch,” said Grimes.

“It was Commodore Kane’s idea of a joke to appoint her to your ship,” Mayhew said.

“That bastard!”

“Just so, sir. Just so. I, like yourself, am firmly of the opinion that he must have ridden to his parents’ wedding ceremony on a bicycle. Anything more, Commodore?”

“That’s enough to be going on with, I think. Oh, you might see if Ms. Granadu has any shipboard uniforms, shorts and shirts, in the slop chest your size. She’s a fairish needlewoman and should be able to knock up a pair of assistant purser’s shoulderboards for you.”

“Some get promoted,” said Mayhew with a grin, “and others demoted. But as one of your officers I shall be entitled to my share of the spoils.”

“If any,” said Grimes.

“If any. Aren’t you just a little sorry that you accepted that commission in the Reserve?”

“Just a little,” admitted Grimes. (It is useless trying to lie to a telepath.) “Oh, and when you see Miss Granadu ask her to come up and see me.”

“And I’ll tell her to bring the coins and the book,” Mayhew said.

***

Grimes shook the three antique coins in his cupped hands, let them fall to the deck. Two tails and a head. Seven. Two heads and a tail. Eight. Three heads. Nine. Another three heads, another nine. Then eight, and again eight for the final throw.

Kou. Sudden encounters. A bold, strong woman appears on the scene. One should not contract a marriage with such a woman . . .

Nine in the third place. He proceeds with difficulty, like one who has been flayed. His position is fraught with danger, but despite this he will commit no great error . . .

“Well,” said Grimes, “that, at least, is comforting.”

“There’s more—and worse—to come, Captain,” said Magda.

She continued reading.

Nine is the fourth place. The inferior men have escaped from restraint, like fish from a bag. This will give rise to evil . . .

“Didn’t we have this once before?” asked Grimes.

“Yes. But that time the lines were not so ominous.”

“And that time,” said Grimes thoughtfully, “there was only one strong woman to worry about. Now there are two.”

Chapter 36

THE FEW DAYS AT PORT KANE
were busy ones for Grimes. Personally he oversaw the installation of
Sister Sue’s
armament—the laser cannon, the quick-firing projectile gun and the missile projector. There was the fire-control console to be fitted in the control room; instrumentation required for normal, peacetime purposes had to be relocated to make room for it. Malleson, too, was busy. The operation of the precession synchronizer would be his concern. He assured Grimes that he had been one of those involved in the original development of this device and that he was looking forward to seeing it in operation.

When he could spare the time Grimes played around with the battle simulator, pitting his wits and skills against the computer representing an enemy commander unless, as sometimes happened, one of the other captains was on hand to play that part. When he was matched against O’Leary or MacWhirter, maneuvering the blob of light that represented his ship in the tank, every simulated battle was for him a walkover. With his one vessel against both of theirs he invariably won; the tramp masters seemed to be quite incapable of deploying all their armament simultaneously. There was always the time lag when they switched from laser to quick-firer to guided missile. But whoever came up against Captain Agatha Prinn, he conceded, would have to be
good
. She took to naval gunnery like a duck to water.

Now and again his captains would be accompanied by their El Doradan officers who, having affixed their signatures to the privateers’ Articles, signing on as fourth mates, were now wearing the uniforms of their putative employers. The Honorable Claude looked faintly absurd in the
Pride of Erin’s
green, although his outfit was far better cut and of greatly superior quality to Captain O’Leary’s. The
Spaceways Princess
rig of tunic and kilt suited Vishinsky, especially since his robot tailor had succeeded in imparting a cossack quality to the upper garment. In
Agatha’s Ark’s
severe grey business suit with the touch of gold on the shoulders the Graf von Stolzberg looked more like a diplomat than a spaceman. Perhaps, thought Grimes, watching the young man as he played the attentive squire to his captain, a diplomat was what he should have been. He was rather ruefully amused. He wished that he were able to advise his son. But then, what would he, could he say? Beware of older women? Beware of
all
women? And who was he, Grimes, to dish out such advice? Don’t do as I do, my boy, do as I say . . .

Williams and Venner were frequent visitors to the dome housing the battle simulator, as were the control-room officers from the other ships. Now and again the Green Hornet condescended to try her hand, usually in the company of the Countess of Walshingham. The Countess was still wearing her El Doradan uniform and had yet to sign
Sister Sue’s
Articles.

It was not all work and no play for the privateers, however. There was The Happy Kangaroo, the pleasure dome which Grimes and his people had first learned about at the Countess of Wilberforce’s prayer meeting. There were refreshments, solid and liquid, all of high quality. There was a gaming room. (Kane, in a jovial mood, told Grimes that the returns from this were almost sufficient to pay for the other entertainments.) Grimes was no gambler but he looked in one evening to watch O’Leary, Vishinsky and other officers, including his own Mr. Venner, playing
vingt et un
. The dealer and banker was the girl who had carried around the collection bag at the finish of that dreary evening in El Dorado City. She seemed to be doing far better for Drongo Kane than she had been doing for the missionaries. She was dressed differently, too, wearing a bunny uniform that showed her long, sleek legs to best advantage.

But Grimes was watching Venner more than he was watching her. Rear Admiral Damien had warned him not to play cards with the man—yet he was losing heavily, as was everybody except the house.

There was music, and there was dancing, and there was a cabaret whose underclad performers made up in enthusiasm for what they lacked in terpsichorean skill. And there was enthusiasm. Grimes knew, off stage. Slumming these girls might be but they were enjoying it.
Sister Sue’s
junior engineers were no longer fighting among themselves for Ms. Connellan’s favors; they had far better and tastier fish to fry.

Grimes knew what was going on and felt the occasional stab of jealousy. He could have had his share of what was going—but he did not like sharing. He was a snob, and he knew it, but the thought of sampling delights that Denning, Singh or Paulus (his pet dislikes!) had already sampled repelled him. He wanted a captain’s lady, not an officers’ mess.

Now and again he would call the Schloss Stolzberg to talk with Marlene. She was polite enough but that was all. He suggested that he come to the castle for a brief visit before departure; she told him that as a commodore he had far too many responsibilities. He asked her if she would come to Port Kane; after all, he told her, she would wish to see her son again before the privateers set off on their venture. She smiled rather sadly and said that she knew that Ferdinand was being very well looked after and that the young man might be embarrassed if his mother, a woman some years younger than Captain Prinn, made her appearance. Of course, Ferdinand would be spending his last night on El Dorado in his mother’s home and it certainly would not do for Grimes to be there too.

He hoped that the El Dorado Corporation or Drongo Kane or whoever would soon decide that it was high time that the privateer fleet was underway.

Chapter 37

HE SAT AT A TABLE
in The Happy Kangaroo, by himself, nursing his drink. He did not, unlike most of the other spacers, consider that free liquor was a valid excuse for getting drunk. Malleson and Mayhew had been with him but the Mannschenn Drive chief had wanted to try out a new system in the gaming room, where a roulette table was in operation. Mayhew had gone with the engineer. Was he a telekineticist as well as a telepath, Grimes had wondered idly. A few tables away the Green Hornet and the Countess of Walshingham were sitting. They were not actually hand in hand but conveyed the impression that they were. Elsewhere in the room were three kilted officers from
Spaceways Princess
, another trio from
Pride of Erin
in their green and gold finery and a quartet from
Agatha’s Ark,
their noisy behavior in contrast to the grey sobriety of their uniforms. A dozen of the volunteer bunnies were looking after them. He wondered briefly where most of his own people were. Williams, he knew, was staying on board, with Magda Granadu to keep him company. Neither Mr. Crumley nor Mr. Stewart was much of a shore-goer. And he had heard talk of a picnic and bathing party at a nearby ocean beach—a beer and bunnies orgy, he thought sourly. That would account for the absence of his junior officers.

He watched the stage more with censorious interest than with enthusiasm. Once he would have enjoyed a turn of this nature; now it rather repelled him. He thought that he knew why. Years ago, when he had been a watchkeeping officer aboard the Zodiac Class cruiser
Aries
, one of his shipmates had been a reservist, a lieutenant who, in civil life, was a second mate in Trans-Galactic Clippers. This young man had a fund of good stories about life in big passenger ships. There was one captain, he told his listeners, who was a notorious womanizer. “We even used to pimp for the old bastard,” said the storyteller. “If he got fixed up at the beginning of the voyage the ship was Liberty Hall . . . But if, for some reason, he failed to score it was
hell
. . . We all had to observe both letter and spirit of company regulations
and
a few extra ones that he thought up himself just to make our lives miserable!”

Grimes had no real desire to emulate the TG captain, but . . .

He looked morosely at the stage, at the naked girl who was dancing, an old-fashioned waltz, with a gleaming, humanoid robot. Great art it was not. It was not even good pornography. The girl was gawky and her movements were stiffer than those of the automaton. Her feet were too big.

Somebody dropped into the chair that had been vacated by Malleson. He was dimly conscious of a white collar with a black bow tie, of smooth shoulders, of long, gleaming legs.
A bunny,
he thought.
Another rich bitch putting on the Lady Bountiful act . . .

She said, “You look as though you’d rather be in The Red Kangaroo, on Botany, John.”

He turned his head to look at her properly.

“Michelle,” he said.

It was by no means the first time that he had seen her scantily clothed but this bunny rig imparted to her a tartiness. It suited her, he decided.

She raised a slim hand commandingly and a robar glided up to their table on silent wheels. She said, “I can see what you’re drinking. I’ll have the same.” She addressed the frontal panel of the machine, gay with little winking lights, and ordered, “Two pink gins.”

“Coming up,” the thing replied in a mechanical voice. A section of panel dropped down to form a shelf and on to it slid two misted goblets. Grimes reached out for them, put them on the table.

He said, “And some little eats.”

A dish of nuts of various kinds appeared on the shelf.

“Still Gutsy Grimes,” murmured the Baroness.

“Just blotting paper,” said Grimes, between nibbles.

She raised her glass to him and said, “Here’s looking at you . . .”

“And at you,” he replied.

She sipped—not as daintily as had been her wont when he first knew her, thought Grimes—and then gestured toward the amateur performer on the stage.

“Ashley,” she said scornfully, “thinks that she’s the best since Isadora Duncan, but . . .”

“Who’s she?”

“Lady Ashley Mortimer.”

“No, not her. Isadora Duncan.”

“Really, John, you are a peasant. She was a famous dancer who lived in the twentieth century, old style. But don’t you find the entertainment here boring?”

“I do, frankly.”

She said, “I’d rather like to see your ship.”

He looked at her intently and asked, “Won’t Drongo mind?”

“The Baron,” she said, with a subtle emphasis on the title, “is in El Dorado City, in conference with Baron Takada and others. It is my understanding that very soon now you will be given orders to lift for Kalla.” She tossed the remains of her drink down her throat. “Come on.” She rose to her feet.

Grimes finished his drink, snatched up a last handful of the nuts and then extricated himself from his chair. Together they walked to the door, out into the warm night.

***

The four ships stood there, floodlit towers of metal, three silvery in the glare, one a dull green. On the side of one of the silver ships a flag had been painted, a purple burgee with a gold ball in the upper canton, a commodore’s broad pennant.

“That’s her,” said Grimes.
“Sister Sue.”

She said, “I wish that somebody would name a ship after me.”

“You could always ask Drongo to do that little thing.”

“Him!” she snorted with such vehemence that Grimes was not only embarrassed but felt an upsurge of loyalty to his own sex.

They strolled slowly over the apron to the foot of
Sister Sue’s
ramp. There was a sentry on duty there, one of the omnipresent robots, attired in approximation of the uniform of the Federation Survey Service Marines. The thing saluted with mechanical smartness. Grimes acknowledged with deliberate sloppiness.