To the Galactic Rim: The John Grimes Saga (7 page)

It was a welcome break from the monotony when he realized that, once again, the ship was maneuvering. This time there was no use of the directional gyroscopes; there were no rocket blasts, but there was a variation of the whine of the Drive as it hunted, hunted, as the temporal precession rate was adjusted by tens of seconds, by seconds, by microseconds.

And then it locked.

The ship shuddered slightly—once, twice.

Grimes envisaged the firing of the two mooring rockets, one from the bow and one from the stern, each with the powerful electromagnet in its nose, each trailing its fathoms of fine but enormously strong cable. Merchant vessels, he knew, carried this equipment, but unlike naval ships rarely used it. But Craven, as a Reservist, would have seen and taken part in enough drills.

The ship shuddered again—heavily.

So the rendezvous had been made. So
Delta Orionis
and
Epsilon Sextans,
their Drives synchronized, bound together by the rescue ship’s cables, were now falling as one unit through the dark immensities.

So the rendezvous had been made—and already the survivors of the wreck were being brought aboard the
Delia O’Ryan,
were being helped out of their stinking spacesuits, were blurting out their story to Craven and his officers. Grimes could visualize it all, almost as clearly as though he were actually watching it. He could visualize, too, the engineers swarming over the wreck, the flare of their burning and welding torches, the cannibalizing of nonessential plating from the ship’s structure for hull patches. It was all laid down in the Survey Service’s Damage Control Manual—and Captain Craven, at least, would know that book as thoroughly as did Grimes.

And what of the cargo, the Survey Service stores,
Grimes’
stores? A trembling in the ship’s structure, a barely felt vibration, told him that gantries and conveyor belts were being brought into operation. There would be no great handling problems. Lindisfarne
was Delta Orionis’
first port of call, and the Survey Service consignment would be top stowage. But there was nothing that Grimes could do about it—not a thing. In fact, he was beginning to doubt the legality of the stand he had made against the Master. And he was the small frog in this small puddle, while Captain Craven had made it quite clear that he was the big frog. Grimes wished that he was better versed in astronautical law—although a professional lawyer’s knowledge would be of no use to him in his present situation.

So, with some hazy idea that he might need all his strength, both mental and physical, for what was to befall him (but
what
?), in the near future, he strapped himself into his bunk and did his best to forget his worries in sleep. He was well enough acquainted with the psychiatrists’ jargon to know that this was no more than a return to the womb but, before dropping off into a shallow slumber, shrugged,
So what?

He jerked into sudden wakefulness.

Jane Pentecost was there by his bunk, looking down at him.

“Come in,” he said. “Don’t bother to knock. Now you see how the poor live. This is Liberty Hall; you can spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard.”

She said, “That’s not very funny.”

“I know it’s not. Even the first time that I heard it aboard this blasted ship I was able to refrain from rolling in the aisles.”

She said, “There’s no need to be so bitchy, John.”

“Isn’t there? Wouldn’t you be bitchy if you’d been thrown into this padded cell?”

“I suppose I would be. But you asked for it, didn’t you?”

“If doing my duty—or trying to do my duty—is asking for it, I suppose that I did. Well—and has our pirate Captain cast off yet, armed to the teeth with the weapons he’s stolen?”

“No. The weapons are still being mounted. But let’s not argue legalities, John. There’s not enough time. I . . . I just wanted to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye?” he echoed.

“Yes. Somebody has to do the cooking aboard
Epsilon Sextans—
and I volunteered.”

“You?”

“And why the hell not?” she flared. “Captain Craven has been pushed over to
our
side of the fence, and it’d be a pretty poor show if we Rim Worlders weren’t prepared to stand by him. Baxter’s gone across to take over as Reaction Drive Engineer; the only survivor in that department was the Fourth, and he’s only a dog watch in Space.”

“And who else?”

“Nobody. The
Sexy Eppy’s
Chief, Second and Third Interstellar Drive Engineers survived, and they’re willing—anxious, in fact, now that their ship’s being armed—to stay on. And the Psionic Radio Officer came through, and is staying on. All of our executive officers volunteered, of course, but the Old Man turned them down. He said that, after all, he could not hazard the safety of this ship by stripping her of her trained personnel. Especially since we carry passengers.”

“That’s his worry,” said Grimes without much sympathy. “But how does he hope to fight his ship if those frigates pounce again?”

“He thinks he’ll be able to manage—with remote controls for every weapon brought to his main control panel.”

“Possible,” admitted Grimes, his professional interest stirred. “But not very efficient. In a naval action the Captain has his hands full just handling the ship alone, without trying to control her weaponry.”

“And you’d know, of course.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, you’ve read the books. And Captain Craven commanded a light cruiser during that trouble with the Dring, so he knows nothing.”

“He still hasn’t got four hands and two heads.”

“Oh, let’s stop talking rubbish,” she cried. “I probably shan’t see you again, John and . . . and . . . oh, hell, I want to say goodbye properly, and I don’t want you to think too badly about either the Old Man or . . . or myself.”

“So what are we supposed to do about it?”

“Damn you, Grimes, you snotty-nosed, stuck-up spacepuppy! Look after yourself!”

Suddenly she bent down to kiss him. It was intended to be no more than a light brushing of lips, but Grimes was suddenly aware, with his entire body, of the closeness of her, of the warmth and the scent of her, and almost without volition his arms went about her, drawing her closer still to him. She tried to break away, but it was only a halfhearted effort. He heard her murmur, in an odd, sardonic whisper, “wotthehell, wotthehell,” and then, “toujours gai.” It made no sense at the time but, years later, when he made the acquaintance of the Twentieth Century poets, he was to remember and to understand. What was important now was that her own arms were about him.

Somehow the buttons of her uniform shirt had come undone, and her nipples were taut against Grimes’ bare chest. Somehow her shorts had been peeled away from her hips—unzippered by whom? and how?—and somehow Grimes’ own garments were no longer the last barrier between them.

He was familiar enough with female nudity; he was one of the great majority who frequented the naked beaches in preference to those upon which bathing costumes were compulsory. He knew what a naked woman looked like—but this was different. It was not the first time that he had kissed a woman—but it was the first time that he had kissed, and been kissed by, an unclothed one. It was the first time that he had been alone with one.

What was happening he had read about often enough—and, like most young men, he had seen his share of pornographic films. But this was different. This was happening to
him.

And for the first time.

When it was over, when, still clasped in each others’ arms they drifted in the center of the little cabin, impelled there by some odd resultant of forces, their discarded clothing drifting with them, veiling their perspiration-moist bodies, Grimes was reluctant to let her go.

Gently, Jane tried to disengage herself.

She whispered, “That was a warmer goodbye that I intended. But I’m not sorry. No. I’m not sorry . . . .”

Then, barely audibly, “It was the first time for you, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m all the more glad it happened. But this
is
goodbye.”

“No.”

“Don’t be a fool, John. You can’t keep me here.”

“But I can come with you.”

She pushed him from her. Somehow he landed back on the bed. Before he could bounce he automatically snapped one of the confining straps about his middle. Somehow—she was still wearing her sandals but nothing else—she finished up standing on the deck, held there by the contact between the magnetic soles and the ferrous fibers in the padding. She put out a long, graceful arm and caught her shirt. She said harshly,
“I’m
getting dressed and out of here.
You
stay put. Damn you, Grimes, for thinking that I was trying to lure you aboard the
Sexy Eppy
with the body beautiful. I told you before that I am not, repeat not, Olga Popovsky, the Beautiful Spy. And I’m not a prostitute. There’s one thing I wouldn’t
sell
if I were offered the services of the finest Gunnery Officer (which you aren’t), in the whole bloody Galaxy in payment!”

“You’re beautiful when you flare up like that,” said Grimes sincerely. “But you’re
always
beautiful.” Then, in a louder voice, “Jane, I love you.”

“Puppy love,” she sneered. “And I’m old enough to be your . . .” A faint smile softened her mouth. “Your maiden aunt.”

“Let me finish. All right, it’s only puppy love—
you
say. But it’s still love. But”—he was extemporizing—convincingly, he hoped—“but my real reason for wanting to come with you is this. I can appreciate now what Captain Craven lost when
Epsilon Sextans
was pirated. I can see—I can
feel—
why he’s willing to risk his life and his career to get his revenge. And I think that it’s worth it. And I want to help him.”

She stood there, her shirt half on, eying him suspiciously. “You mean that? You really mean that?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re a liar, Grimes.”

“No,” he said slowly. “No. Not altogether. I want to help the Old Man—and I want to help
you
. This piracy has convinced me that you Rim Worlders
are
getting the dirty end of the stick. I may not be the finest Gunnery Officer in the whole Galaxy—but I’m better acquainted with the new stuff than Captain Craven is.”

Her grin was openly derisive. “First it’s fellow-feeling for another spaceman, then it’s international politics. What next?”

“Where we started. I
do
love you, Jane. And if there’s going to be any shooting, I want to be on hand to do the shooting back on your behalf. I’ll admit that . . . that what’s happened has influenced my decision. But you didn’t buy me, or bribe me. Don’t think that. Don’t ever think that.” There was a note of pleading in his voice. “Be realistic, Jane. With another officer along, especially an officer with recent gunnery training, you stand a damn sight better chance than you would otherwise.”

“I . . . I suppose so. But I still don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to. But why look a gift horse in the mouth?”

“All right. You win. Get your clothes on and come and see the Old Man.”

11

JANE PENTECOST
led Grimes to the airlock. The ship seemed oddly deserted, and he remarked on this. The girl explained that the passengers had been requested to remain in their accommodations, and that most
of Delta Orionis’
personnel were employed in work aboard
Epsilon Sextans.

“ So I haven’t been the only one to be kept under lock and key,” commented Grimes sardonically.

“You’re the only one,” retorted the girl, “who’s been compensated for his imprisonment.”

There was no answer to that, so the Ensign remained silent. Saying nothing, he inspected with interest the temporary tunnel that had been rigged between the airlocks of the two ships.
So Epsilon Sextans’
pressure hull had been made good, her atmosphere restored. That meant that the work of installing the armament had been completed. He hoped that he would not have to insist upon modifications.

The wreck—although she was a wreck no longer—bore her scars. The worst damage had been repaired, but holes and slashes that did not impair her structural strength were untouched, and spatters of once molten metal still made crazy patterns on beams and frames, stanchions and bulkheads. And there were the scars made by Craven’s engineers—the raw, bright cicatrices of new welding.

Forward they made their way, deck after deck. The elevator in the axial shaft was not yet working, so Grimes had time and opportunity to appreciate the extent of the damage. They passed through the wreckage of the “farm”—the burst algae tanks, the ruptured vats in which yeast and tissue cultures were black and dead, frostbitten and dehydrated. They brushed through alleyways choked with the brittle fronds of creeping plants killed by the ultimate winter.

And then they were passing through the accommodation levels. Bulkheads had been slashed through, destroying the privacy of the cabins that they had once enclosed. Destroying the privacy—and the occupants. There were no longer any bodies; for this Grimes was deeply thankful. (He learned later that Craven’s first action had been to order and conduct a funeral service.) There were no bodies—but there were still stains. Men and women die quickly in hard vacuum—quickly and messily.

Captain Craven was alone in the Control Room. He was working, rather slowly and clumsily, wiring up an obviously makeshift panel that was additional to the original one installed before the Master’s acceleration chair. It was obvious what it was—the remote controls for the newly fitted weaponry. Grimes said quickly, “There’s no need for that, sir.”

Craven started, let go of his screwdriver, made a fumbling grab for it as it drifted away from him. He stared at Grimes, then growled, “So it’s
you,
is it?” Then, to Jane, “What the hell do you mean by letting this puppy out of his kennel?”