Ride the Star Winds (63 page)

“At about 0900?” asked Grimes.

“At seven of the clock,” stated Coffin. “We, on this world do not waste the daylight hours that God sends us.”

Grimes sent for his senior officers, received from them more detailed damage reports than the earlier ones, told them of his talk with Coffin. He said, “There will be shore leave. But you must make it plain to your people, the girls especially, that they are to avoid giving offense in any way. This is a very puritanical planet, so the ladies are to wear long skirts at all times. It will be as well, too, if there is no smoking in public.”

Steerforth laughed. “That’s going to hurt you, Captain.”

“Too right it is,” agreed Grimes. “But I suppose that I must set a good example for the rest of you.” He turned to Florence Scott. “I’m afraid that it’s an early rise and an early breakfast for you tomorrow morning, Flo. The pastor—he’s the local boss cocky—is letting us use the Able Enterprises repair and maintenance facilities. I suggested that we meet him in the workshop at 0900 but he made it plain that, as far as he’s concerned, the day’s work starts at 0700. We have to play along.

“You can make contact with the local ship chandler, Melinda,” he said to the catering officer, “and order any consumable stores necessary. Just try to remember that
Sister Sue
is not the flagship of Trans-Galactic Clippers! Oh, and if there are any locals aboard don’t forget to keep Seiko out of sight . . .”

She grinned whitely and said, “I’ve read that article in
Star Scandals
, Captain. If any of these superstitious bastards got the idea that she’s my familiar I might get barbecued.”

“And Seiko almost certainly would be. And how are things in the time-twisting department, Dan?”

“All that are required are patience and a few pairs of steady hands,” said the Mannschenn Drive engineer. “We shall have things re-assembled before Flo’s pusher is ready.”

“And then you’ll make a balls of the recalibration,” Ms. Scott said. “It’s happened before, you know.”

“And that seems to be it,” said Grimes. “A nightcap before you go?”

They accepted. When they finally left, Grimes overheard a scrap of conversation from the alleyway outside his door, Florence Scott talking to Daniel Grey.

“The old bastard’s taking things remarkably well. I thought that he’d be having my guts for a necktie.”

“He’s insured,” said Grey.

And I’ll be surprised
, thought Grimes, if Lloyd’s don’t up my premiums.

Chapter 17

The next morning Grimes,
with Steerforth, Florence Scott and Juanita Garcia, partook of an early breakfast. The meal finished, the four of them made their way out of the ship, down the ramp to the scarred concrete of the apron, still wet from overnight showers. The sun was only just up, in a partly cloudy sky, and the air was decidedly chilly. The spaceport administration buildings toward which they were walking reminded Grimes of pictures that he had seen in his father’s library, of small seaports on the Pacific coast of North America during the nineteenth century old style. There were the rather ramshackle wooden structures, the tallest of which was the control tower from which, incongruously, sprouted the antennae and scanners of modern communication and locating equipment. But there should have been a quay, thought Grimes, with square-rigged sailing vessels, whalers, alongside to complete the picture.

“Are you sure that we didn’t, somehow, travel back in time, Captain?” asked Juanita. “It’s not only the way that this place looks but the way that it smells, even . . . .”

Grimes removed his pipe from his mouth, exhaled the fumes of burning tobacco, waited until his sense of smell was again operational and then sniffed the air. Drifting down the light wind from the nearby town was the pleasant acridity of wood smoke from morning cooking fires.

He said to the second engineer, “In a way we have traveled back in time, Juanita. The colonists here deliberately put the clock back. Oh, well, it’s their world and they’re welcome to it.”

There were signs of life around the administration buildings. As the party from the ship approached these a tall, black-clad figure emerged from one of the sheds, strode up to them. It was Pastor Coffin. He pulled a huge, silver watch from his waistcoat pocket, glared at it. He said, “You are late, Captain. It is already two minutes past the hour.”

Grimes apologized, with a certain look of sincerity, saying that he had underestimated the time that it would take to walk from the ship. The pastor said coldly, “You spacemen . . .” He looked coldly at Juanita who, even in her white overalls, was indubitably feminine. “You spacepersons, with your machines waiting on you hand and foot, do not take enough healthy exercise. But come.”

He led the way into the long shed from which he had emerged. The interior was gloomy. The windows were small and the few electric lights that had been switched on seemed to be doing their best to imitate oil lamps. What was their power source? wondered Grimes. Batteries, probably. In one corner was what was obviously a generator, which was not running. It, like the other machinery and equipment in the shed, would be the property of Able Enterprises.

“Can’t we have some proper light?” asked Ms. Scott irritably. “I see a jenny there that’s doing nothing for its living.”

“You may start the machine,” said Coffin to Grimes. “But you will be charged for its hire.”

“We must have proper illumination,” said Grimes. “Flo, can you get that thing going?”

“No trouble, Captain. I cut my teeth on diesels.”

She walked to the generator, inspected it, cracked fuel valves and switched on the electric starter. The thing coughed briefly and then settled down to a steady beat. Juanita found other light switches and, within seconds, the interior of the workshop was bathed by the harsh glow of the overhead fluorescents.

Steerforth said to Grimes, as he looked around, “Drongo Kane could almost build a ship from scratch with the stuff that he’s got stashed in here.”

“As long as there’s some suitable plating . . .” said Grimes.

“And we shall probably have to use that lathe,” put in Ms. Scott. “To turn down a new shaft for the governor.”

“I rely upon you,” said Coffin, “to maintain a strict tally of all materials utilized and of all machinery employed.”

“You can start the timekeeping now, Mr. Steerforth,” Grimes ordered his chief officer. “When I go back to the ship I shall arrange for you to be relieved by Mr. Kershaw.”

Steerforth pulled a notebook from his pocket and made entries.

Coffin accompanied Grimes back to
Little Sister
.

He said, “Perhaps you think it strange, Captain, that I should allow your people free run of the workshop.”

Grimes said, “Frankly yes, Pastor. I expected that you or one of your people would remain to keep an eye on things.”

The pastor made a sound that approximated a chuckle. “We do business with Able Enterprises but we do not have to like them, any more than we have to like you. In the final analysis, it matters not if one party of unbelievers, as represented by yourself, robs another party of unbelievers. But I think that you are, according to your lights, dim though they be, an honorable man . . .”

“Thank you,” said Grimes dryly.

“And, of course, the port dues and such that you will pay will hasten the day when our project shall be completed . . .”

Project? wondered Grimes. Oh, yes. The Ark that would survive the eventual collapse of the Universe.

He asked, “Has work on the project actually commenced yet?”

“We have commissioned research,” the pastor told him. “The salvation vessel will not, of course, be mechanically propelled. It will be a sailing ship of Space.”

“Mphm,” grunted Grimes.

They had reached the foot of the gangway. Not very enthusiastically Grimes invited Coffin aboard the ship for morning tea. He was relieved when the pastor declined the invitation, saying that he was a busy man. He went aboard himself, sent for the second officer and told him to take over from Mr. Steerforth in the workshop. He discussed various matters with the chief MD engineer and the catering officer. Then he sent for Shirl and Darleen, looked them up and down and ordered them to change into less revealing uniforms, telling them that they were to accompany him on a stroll to the town, which was also the seaport. He waited for them in the after airlock. When they joined him they were dressed in concealing (more or less) white overalls, standard working rig.

The day was warming up now although there was still a nip in the breeze. The road from the spaceport to the seaport was little more than a rough track and the walk was rather more arduous than Grimes had anticipated. Still, he enjoyed it, looking with interest at the vegetation on either side of the path. He was no botanist and could see little difference between these trees and Terran pines, between these bushes and gorse and broom. Perhaps the flora was of Terran origin and had been introduced by the colonists. Perhaps not. It did not much matter. It was the indigenous fauna with which he was concerned.

Shirl complained, “Why must we wear these things, John? We want to run, to feel the sun and the fresh air on our bodies.”

He told her, “You know why. You’ve read your pal Fenella’s story about what happened when she was here.”

“Yes,” said Darleen. “But Fenella’s toys were not only undressed. They were . . . “

“And perhaps
we
could,” suggested Shirl.

“Not here, not now,” said Grimes hastily; nonetheless he did think that a nearby clump of broom would provide adequate cover.

They came to the town. There were wooden houses, none of more than one story, except for the church, with its little bell tower. Lace curtains covered the small windows but Grimes thought that some of these were drawn aside for a surreptitious peep as the three strangers made their way down the narrow street. But there were very few people abroad and the occasional black-clad man or woman whom they encountered scowled at them suspiciously.

Suddenly Shirl and Darleen, walking to either side of Grimes, fell silent. This, for them, was most unusual. He looked at first one and then the other. Their faces were pale, frightened almost.

He asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t you . . .
smell
it, John?” said Darleen.

“Smell what?” he demanded.

There was the salty tang of the nearby sea and with it, not unpleasant, a hint of decaying seaweed. And there was the acridity of tar and, from a baker’s shop, the mouth-watering aroma of freshly baked bread.

“The . . . The smell of fear,” whispered Shirl. “And of pain . . . And of helplessness . . .”

And something was happening on the waterfront. Suddenly there was a growing clamor, the sound of many voices, shouting exultantly. There was singing; it sounded like a hymn of some kind. And now and again there was a thin, high, unhuman screaming.

Grimes quickened his pace and the girls kept step, hurrying through the narrow, winding dirt street. They emerged on to a wide quay, from which protruded finger jetties. At two of these, large schooners were already alongside; other schooners, four of them, were coming in from seaward, running free, their shabby sails widespread to catch the last of the dying breeze. The jetties were crowded with the singing, shouting, black-clad people, although those at which the ships had yet to come alongside were less congested.

To one of these Grimes, followed by Shirl and Darleen, made his way. He clambered up on to one of the ox-drawn wagons that was waiting there so that he could see over the heads of the crowd, watch what was happening. The girls followed him. The driver of this vehicle, a burly, black-bearded giant, turned in his seat to stare at them.

He growled, “Get off, you!” Then, as he saw the uniforms, his manner changed. “Oh, you’re spacers, aren’t you? Off that ship. You can stay, but only until I pick up my load.”

“What will your load be?” asked Grimes.

“The harvest of the sea, spacer. Looks as though the boats have done well this trip. They’re low in the water.”

Yes
, thought Grimes, looking at the approaching schooner.
She’s down to her marks, or over them . . .

The triangular sails were coming down now and being lashed smartly to the booms. That skipper, thought Grimes, knew his job. With only a ballooning jib to provide steerage way, the ship ghosted in, drifted gently alongside the jetty. Lines were thrown, caught by men on the quay, their eyes slipped over bollards. The jib came down with a run.

The hatches, one abaft the foremast, the other abaft the mainmast, were already open. From his vantage point Grimes could see into both of these. In the main hold were bloody pelts—black and brown and gray and golden. In the forehold was living cargo, a squirming mass in which the same colors predominated. And it was from this hold that the thin, high screaming came.

And there was a faint scream from either Shirl or Darleen.

Grimes said to the driver, making a statement rather than asking a question, “Silkies . . .”

“What else, spacer.”

“But those live ones. In the forward hold . . .”

“Pups o’ course.”

Grimes, shipowner and shipmaster, was becoming interested and for more than humanitarian reasons. “It seems to me,” he said, “that the adult silkies were skinned where they were slaughtered. But why were the pups taken alive? If they’d been killed and skinned too, so much more cargo could have been carried.”

The driver laughed condescendingly.

“It’s easy to see that you are not on the fur trade, spacer. The people from the Able ships know how we do things. The pelts of the pups are much finer than those of the adults. It has been found that if they are carried for days in a ship’s hold, even well-salted down, they go rotten. So the pup pelts are brought in still on the pups. And then the pups are skinned in the factories.”

“But I would think,” said Grimes, “that the pups themselves would die and go rotten, and their skins around them, during a voyage in those conditions.”

“Not them. They’re not like us. They’re hardy beasts. Oh, those on the bottom will be near dead by the time that they’re discharged—but they’ll all soon be dead in any case.”