To the Galactic Rim: The John Grimes Saga (53 page)

And somehow it didn’t matter.

The voyage to Kobenhaven was not a pleasant one.

The Commissioner made no attempt to conceal her feelings insofar as Grimes was concerned. Rosaleen, he knew, was on his side—but what could a mere lady’s maid do to help him? She could have done quite a lot to make him less miserable, but her mistress made sure that there were no opportunities. The officers remained loyal—but not too loyal. They had their own careers to think about. As long as Grimes was captain they were obliged to take his orders, and the Commissioner knew it as well as they did. Oddly enough it was only Hollister, the newcomer, the misfit, who showed any sympathy. But he knew, more than any of the others, what had been going on, what was going on in Grimes’s mind.

At last the two ships broke out into normal space-time just clear of Skandia’s Van Allens. This Andersen, Grimes admitted glumly to himself, was a navigator and shiphandler of no mean order. He said as much into the transceiver. The little image of the Skandian captain in the screen grinned out at him cheerfully. “Just the normal standards of the Royal Skandian Navy, Captain. I’m casting you off, now. I’ll follow you in. Home on the Kobenhaven Base beacon.” He grinned again. “And don’t try anything.”

“What can I try?” countered Grimes, with a grin of his own.

“I don’t know. But I’ve heard about you, Lieutenant Grimes. You have the reputation of being able to wriggle out of anything.”

“I’m afraid I’m losing my reputation, Captain.” Grimes, through the viewports, watched the magnetic grapnels withdrawn into their recesses in
Princess Helga’s
hull. Then, simultaneously, both he and Andersen applied lateral thrust. As the vessel surged apart the fenders were deflated, sucked back into their sockets.

Adder,
obedient to her captain’s will, commenced her descent towards the white and gold, green and blue sphere that was Skandia. She handled well, as well as Grimes had ever known her to do. But this was probably the last time that he would be handling this ship, any ship. The Commissioner would see to that. He shrugged. Well, he would make the most of it, would try to enjoy it. He saw that Beadle and von Tannenbaum and Slovotny were looking at him apprehensively. He laughed. He could guess what they were thinking. “Don’t worry,” he told them. “I’ve no intention of going out in a blaze of glory. And now, Sparks, do you think you could lock on to that beacon for me?”

“Ay, Captain,” Slovotny replied. And then, blushing absurdly, “It’s a damn shame, sir.”

“It will all come right in the end,” said Grimes with a conviction that he did not feel. He shrugged again. At least that cast-iron bitch and her tin boyfriends weren’t in Control to ruin the bitter-sweetness of what, all too probably, would be his last pilotage.

Adder
fell straight and true, plunging into the atmosphere, countering every crosswind with just the right application of lateral thrust. Below her continents and seas expanded, features—rivers, forests, mountains, and cities—showed with increasing clarity.

And there was the spaceport, and there was the triangle of brilliant red winking lights in the center of which Grimes was to land his ship. He brought her down fast—and saw apprehension dawning again on the faces of his officers. He brought her down fast—and then, at almost the last possible second, fed the power into his inertial drive unit. She shuddered and hung there, scant inches above the concrete of the apron. And then the irregular throbbing slowed, and stopped, and
Adder
was down, with barely a complaint from the shock absorbers.

“Finished with engines,” said Grimes quietly.

He looked out of the ports at the soldiers who had surrounded the ship.

“Are we under arrest, Captain?” asked von Tannenbaum.

“Just a guard of honor for the Commissioner,” said Grimes tiredly.

Grimes’s remark was not intended to be taken seriously—but it wasn’t too far from the mark. The soldiers were, actually, members of the Royal Bodyguard and they did, eventually, escort Mrs. Commissioner Dalwood to the Palace. But that was not until after the King himself had been received aboard
Adder
with all due courtesy, or such courtesy as could be mustered by Grimes and his officers after a hasty reading of
Dealings With Foreign Dignitaries; General Instructions.
Grimes, of course, could have appealed to the Commissioner for advice; she moved in diplomatic circles and he did not. He
could
have appealed to her. He thought,
As long as I’m Captain of this ship I’ll stand on my own two feet.
Luckily the Port Authorities had given him warning that His Skandian Majesty would be making a personal call on board.

He was a big young man, this King Eric, heavily muscled, with ice-blue eyes, a flowing yellow moustache, long, wavy yellow hair. Over baggy white trousers that were thrust into boots of unpolished leather he wore a short-sleeved shirt of gleaming chain mail. On his head was a horned helmet. He carried a short battle-axe. The officers with him—with the exception of Captain Andersen, whose own ship was now down—were similarly uniformed, although the horns of their helmets were shorter, their ceremonial axes smaller. Andersen was in conventional enough space captain’s dress rig.

Grimes’s little day cabin was uncomfortably crowded. There was the King, with three of his high officers. There was Andersen. There was (of course) the Commissioner, and she had brought her faithful robot, John, with her. Only King Eric and Mrs. Dalwood were seated.

John, Grimes admitted, had his uses. He mixed and served drinks like a stage butler. He passed around cigarettes, cigarillos, and cigars. And Mrs. Dalwood had
her
uses. Grimes was not used to dealing with royalty, with human royalty, but she was. Her manner, as she spoke to the King, was kind but firm. Without being disrespectful she managed to convey the impression that she ranked with, but slightly above, the great-grandson of a piratical tramp skipper. At first Grimes feared (hoped) that one of those ceremonial but sharp axes would be brought into play—but, oddly enough, King Eric seemed to be enjoying the situation.

“So you see, Your Majesty,” said the Commissioner, “that it is imperative that I resume my journey to Dhartana as soon as possible. I realize that this vessel will be delayed for some time until the necessary repairs have been effected, so I wonder if I could charter one of your ships.” She added, “I have the necessary authority.”

Eric blew silky fronds of moustache away from his thick lips. “We do not question that, Madam Commissioner. But you must realize that We take no action without due consultation with Our advisors. Furthermore . . .” he looked like a small boy screwing up his courage before being saucy to the schoolteacher . . . “We do not feel obliged to go out of Our way to render assistance to your Federation.”

“The
Princess Ingaret
incident
was
rather unfortunate, Your Majesty . . .” admitted Mrs. Dalwood sweetly. “But I never thought that the Skandians were the sort of people to bear grudges . . .”

“I . . .” he corrected himself hastily . . . “We are not, Madam Commissioner. But a Monarch, these days, is servant to as well as leader of his people . . .”

Grimes saw the generals, or whatever they were, exchanging ironical glances with Captain Andersen.

“But, Your Majesty, it is to our common benefit that friendly relations between Skandia and the Federation be re-established.”

Friendly relations?
thought Grimes.
She looks as though she wants to take him to bed. And he knows it.

“Let me suggest, Madam Commissioner, that you do me—Us—the honor of becoming Our guest? At the Palace you will be able to meet the Council of Earls as soon as it can be convened. I have no doubt—
We
have no doubt that such a conference will be to the lasting benefit of both Our realms.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. We are . . .” She saw Grimes looking at her sardonically and actually blushed. “I am honored.”

“It should not be necessary for you to bring your aides, or your own servants,” said King Eric.

“I shall bring John and James,” she told him. “They are my robot servitors.”

Eric, whose face had fallen, looked cheerful again. “Then We shall see that all is ready for you.” He turned to one of his own officers. “General, please inform the Marshal of the Household that Madam Commissioner Dalwood is to be Our guest.”

The general raised his wrist transceiver to his bearded lips, passed on the instructions.

“John,” ordered the Commissioner, “tell Miss Rosaleen and James to pack for me. Miss Rosaleen will know what I shall require.”

“Yes, Madam,” replied the robot, standing there. He was not in telepathic communication with his metal brother—but UHF radio was as good.

“Oh, Your Majesty . . .”

“Yes, Madam Commissioner?”

“What arrangements are being made for Lieutenant Grimes and his officers, and for my lady’s maid? Presumably this ship will be under repair shortly, and they will be unable to live aboard.”

“Mrs. Dalwood!” Grimes did not try very hard to keep his rising resentment from showing. “May I remind you that I am captain of
Adder?
And may I remind you that Regulations insist that there must be a duty officer aboard at all times in foreign ports?”

“And may I remind you, Mr. Grimes, that an Admiral of the Fleet or a civilian officer of the Board of Admiralty with equivalent rank can order the suspension of any or all of the Regulations? Furthermore, as such a civilian officer, I
know
that nothing aboard your ship, armament, propulsive units or communications equipment, is on the Secret List. You need not fear that our hosts’ technicians will learn anything at all to their advantage.” She added, too sweetly, “Of course, you might learn from them . . .”

King Eric laughed gustily. “And that is why We must insist, Lieutenant, that neither you nor your officers are aboard while repairs are in progress. Captain Andersen, please make arrangements for the accommodation of the Terran officers.”

“Ay, Your
Majesty,” replied Andersen smartly. He looked at Grimes and said without words,
I’m sorry, spaceman, but that’s the way it has to be.

Grimes and his officers were housed in the Base’s Bachelor Officers’ Quarters, and Rosaleen was accommodated in the barracks where the female petty officers lived. They weren’t prisoners—quite. They were guests—but strictly supervised guests. They were not allowed near their own ship—and that hurt. They were not allowed near any of the ships—in addition to
Princess Helga
and
Adder
there were three destroyers, a transport and two tugs in port. Captain Andersen, who seemed to have been given the job of looking after them, was apologetic.

“But I have to remember that you’re spacemen, Lieutenant. And I have to remember that you have the reputation of being a somewhat unconventional spaceman, with considerable initiative.” He laughed shortly. “I shudder to think what would happen if you and your boys flew the coop in any of the wagons—yours or ours—that are berthed around the place.”

Grimes sipped moodily from his beer—he and the Captain were having a drink and chat in the well-appointed wardroom of the B.O.Q. He said, “There’s not much chance of our doing that, sir. You must remember that the Commissioner is my passenger, and that I am responsible for her. I could not possibly leave without her.”

“Much as you dislike her,” grinned the other. “I think that she is quite capable of looking after herself.”

“I know that she is, Captain. Even so . . .”

“If you’re thinking of rescuing her . . .” said Andersen.

“I’m not,” Grimes told him. He had seen the Palace from the outside, a grim, grey pile that looked as though it had been transported, through space and time, from Shakespeare’s Elsinore. But there was nothing archaic about its defenses, and it was patrolled by well-armed guards who looked at least as tough as the Federation’s Marines. He went on, almost incuriously, “I suppose that she’s being well treated.”

“I have heard that His Majesty is most hospitable.”

“Mphm. Well, we certainly can’t complain, apart from a certain lack of freedom. Mind you, Mr. Beadle is whining a bit. He finds your local wenches a bit too robust for his taste. He prefers small brunettes to great, strapping blondes . . . But your people have certainly put on some good parties for us. And Rosaleen was telling me that she’s really enjoying herself—the P.O.s’ mess serves all the fattening things she loves with every meal.”

“Another satisfied customer,” said Andersen.

“But
I’m
not satisfied, Captain. I know damn well that the repairs to my Mannschenn Drive took no more than a day. How long are we being held here?”

“That, Lieutenant, is a matter for my masters—and yours. We—and our ships—are no more than pawns on the board.” The Captain looked at his watch. “Talking of ships, I have some business aboard
Princess Helga.
You must excuse me.” He finished his beer and got to his feet. “Don’t forget that after lunch you’re all being taken for a sail on the Skaggerak . . .”

“I’ll not forget, sir,” Grimes informed him.

He was, in fact, looking forward to it. He enjoyed the sailing excursions in stout little wooden ships as much as any Skandian, already had proved himself capable of handling a schooner under a full press of canvas quite competently, and was realizing that seamanship and spacemanship, the skilled balancing of physical forces, have much in common.

He sat down again when Andersen had left the almost deserted wardroom, then saw Hollister coming towards him. The telepath said in a low voice, “I’m afraid you’ll not be taking that sail, Captain.”

Grimes was going to make some cutting remark about psionic snooping, then thought better of it. He asked, “Why not, Mr. Hollister?”

The psionic communications officer grinned wryly. “Yes, I’ve been snooping, Captain. I admit it. But not only on you. Not that it was really snooping. I’ve maintained contact of a sort with John . . .”