Upon a Sea of Stars (40 page)

“I suppose,” the third officer rattled on, “that it’s all something to do with different dimensions. Here we’re at the very edge of the expanding galaxy, and the barriers between continua must be stretched thin, very thin. That planet’s popped through into our continuum, but only half through, if you see what I mean. Its primary has stayed put on the other side of the boundary. . . .”

“A fairish hypothesis,” admitted Grimes. “It will have to do until we can think of a better one.”

And,
he told himself,
there must be a better one.
As far as he knew the difference between the universes were cultural rather than cosmological. There just couldn’t be a planet here—or a sun with a family of planets.

“And I wonder what the people are like, sir. Would they be humanoid, do you think, or even human? They must be civilized. They have cities.”

Grimes muttered something about plastic jungles.

“Not plastic, sir. They haven’t radio, so the chances are that they don’t run to chemical engineering. Concrete jungles . . . would that be better?”

Grimes allowed himself to suppose that it might be.

“You couldn’t have timed it better, sir. That large town you decided on will be just clear of the terminator when we get down.”

In the Federation’s Survey Service, thought Grimes, we were drilled so that such timing became second nature. How had that instructor put it? “Make your first landing just west of the terminator, and unless some bastard chases you off you’ve the whole day to play silly buggers in.”

“Better fasten seat belts, sir.”

Grimes pulled the webbing taut across his body, snapped shut the buckle. In a boat fitted with Inertial Drive the ride down to the planetary surface should be a smooth one, provided that there was no atmosphere turbulence. But here there was no spaceport control to give information on meteorological conditions. He spoke into the microphone of the transceiver. “Commodore to
Rim Jaguar
. We are now entering exosphere. So far all in going as planned.” He heard Drakenberg acknowledge.

The air below the boat was clear, abnormally so. The lights of the cities were like star clusters. For a brief second Grimes entertained the crazy idea that they
were
star clusters, that he and Sanderson had broken through into some other time and space, were somehow adrift in regions toward the heart of a galaxy. He looked upward for reassurance. But he did not, through the transparency of the overhead viewport, see the familiar, almost empty Rim sky. The firmament was ablaze with unfamiliar constellations. It was frightening. Had Sanderson, somehow, turned the boat over just as Grimes had shifted his regard? He had not, as a glance at the instrument panel made obvious. He had not—and below were still the city lights, and from zenith to horizon there were the stars, and low to the west was a great golden moon. Astern, the first rosy flush of dawn was in the sky.

His voice unemotional, deliberately flat, Grimes reported his observations to the ship.

Swiftly the boat fell through the atmosphere, so fast that interior temperature rose appreciably. But Sanderson was a first class pilot and at no time did he allow the speed of descent to approach dangerous limits. Swiftly the boat fell, her Inertial Drive purring gently, resisting but not overcoming the gravitational field that had her in its grip. Through the morning twilight she dropped, and above her only the brighter stars were visible in the pale sky, and below her the land masses were gray-green rather than black, and the city lights had lost their sharp scintillance and were going out, street by street.

It was toward what looked like a park that Sanderson, on Grimes’s instructions, was steering, an irregular rectangle of comparative darkness outlined by such lights as were still burning. There were trees there, the men could see as the boat lost altitude; there were trees, and there were dull-gleaming ribbons and amoeboid shapes that looked like water, and featureless patches that must be clear level ground. Bordering the park were the towers of the city—tall, fantastically turreted and, when struck by the first bright rays of the rising sun, shining like jewels in the reflected radiance.

The boat grounded gently on a soft, resilient surface. Grimes looked at Sanderson and Sanderson looked at Grimes, and then they both stared out of the viewports. They had landed in the middle of the park, on what looked like a lawn of emerald green grass, not far from the banks of a stream. There were trees in the foreground, low, static explosions of dark foliage among which gleamed, scarlet and crimson and gold, what were either fruit or flowers. In the background were the distant towers, upthrusting like the suddenly frozen spray of some great fountain, an opalescent tracery against the clear blue sky.

“Open up, sir?” asked the young officer at last.

“Yes,” said Grimes. An itemized list of all the precautions that should be taken before setting foot on a strange planet briefly flashed before his mind’s eye, but he ignored it. And to wear a spacesuit in this huge, gorgeous garden would be heresy. But not all of his training could be dismissed so easily. Reluctantly he picked up the microphone, made his report to the ship. He concluded with the words, “We’re going out, now, to make contact with the natives. You have your instructions, Captain.”

“Yes, Commodore Grimes.” Grimes wondered why Drakenberg should sound so anxious. “If I don’t hear from you again twenty-four standard hours from now, at the latest, I’m to make a report directly to the Admiralty and await their orders.” He hesitated, then brought out the final words with some difficulty. “And on no account am I to attempt another landing.”

“That is correct, Captain Drakenberg. Over.”

“Good luck, Commodore Grimes. Over and out.”

Sanderson already had both air lock doors open and the cool breeze had eddied gently through the little cabin, flushing out the acridity of hot oil and machinery, bringing with it the scent of flowers, of dew-wet grass. There were birds singing outside and then, faint yet clear, the sound of a great clock somewhere in the city striking the hour. Automatically Grimes looked at his watch, made to reset it and then smiled at his foolishness. He did not know yet what sort of time it was that these people kept.

He was first out of the boat, jumping down onto the velvety turf, joined almost at once by Sanderson. “This is beautiful!” exclaimed the young man. “I hope that the natives come up to what we’ve seen so far.” He added, “The girls especially.”

Grimes should have reproved him, but he didn’t. He was too busy wondering what it was that made everything, so far, so familiar. He had never seen this world before, or any planet like it, and yet. . . How did he know, for example, that this city’s name was Ayonoree? How could he know?

“Which way do we go, sir?” Sanderson was asking.

Which way? The memory, if it was memory, wasn’t quite good enough. “We’ll follow the stream,” he decided.

It was a short walk to the near bank of the little river, along which ran a path of flagstones. The water was crystal clear, gently flowing. On it floated great lily pads, and on one of these sat a huge frog, all gold and emerald, staring at them with bright, protuberant eyes. It croaked loudly.

“It’s saying something!” cried Sanderson.

“Rubbish!” snapped Grimes, who was trying to break the odd spell that had been cast over them. But were those words that they could hear?

Follow stream stay in the dream.
Follow stream stay in the dream.

“You!” shouted Sanderson. “What do you mean?”

In reply the batrachian croaked derisively, splashed into the water and struck out slowly for the further shore.

So we follow the stream,
thought Grimes. He set off along the path, the young man tailing behind. Suddenly he stopped. There was a tree, gracefully trailing its tendril-like branches almost to the water, to one side of the flagstones, another tree a few yards inshore from it. Between the trunks was a huge, glittering web. There was a spider, too, disgustingly hairy, as large as a man’s clenched fist, scuttling toward the center of its fragile-seeming net. And there was an insect of some kind, a confused fluttering of gauzy wings, snared by the viscous strands.

Grimes made to detour around the landward tree. After all, spiders were entitled to a meal, just as he was. Insofar as the uglier sides of Nature were concerned he tried to maintain his neutrality. He did not especially like spiders—but, in all probability, that oversized insect in the web was something even more unpleasant.

Behind him he heard Sanderson cry out, heard the hiss of his laser pistol and felt the heat of the beam that narrowly missed his right ear. The fleshy body of the spider exploded and hung there, tattered and steaming. There was a sickening stench of burned flesh.

Grimes turned angrily on the young man. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? For all we know, spiders are sacred on this world!”

“More likely
these
are!”

Sanderson had pushed past Grimes and, with gentle hands, was freeing the trapped creature. “Look!” he was saying. “Look!”

The Commodore looked. This was not, as he assumed, an insect. It was humanoid, a winged woman, but tiny, tiny. Her lustrous golden hair hung to her waist, and beneath her filmy green robe was the hint of perfectly formed breasts. Her mouth was scarlet and her eyes blue, and her features were perfectly formed. She sat there in the third officer’s cupped hands, looking up at him. Her voice, when she spoke, was like the tinkling of a little silver bell.

“Follow stream, and follow river,

“When danger threatens do not quiver;

“Follow stream to Ogre’s Keep,

“Wake the Princess from her sleep!”

“What princess?” demanded Grimes.

She turned to glare to him.

“Prince’s servitors like you,

“Should only speak when spoken to.”

Sanderson was shocked. “This is the Commodore,” he said severely to the winged being.

“Commodore, Schmommodore!” she replied sweetly—and then, with hardly a quiver of those impractical looking pinions, was gone.

“So you’re promoted,” said Grimes dryly. “And I’m demoted.”

“All the same, sir, it was absolute sauce on her part.” Then he went on a little smugly. “The odd part is that I
am
a prince. My father was King of Tavistock, until they threw him out.”

“And your great-grandfather,” said Grimes, “who founded the dynasty, was a semi-piratical tramp skipper. I know the history.”

“Do we follow the stream, sir?”

“Yes. It’s as good a way to explore this world as any.”

They followed the stream. Through the great park it led them, past enormous beds of fantastic, glowing flowers, through a grove of gaunt, contorted trees. The transition from parkland to city street was abrupt; suddenly there were cobbles underfoot instead of the worn flagstones, and on every hand towered multi-colored buildings, convoluted structures that made nonsense of all the laws of architecture and engineering.

People were abroad now, men and women, a great number of children. They were human enough in outward appearance at least, but there was an oddness about them, an oversimplification of all features, a peculiar blend of stylization and caricature. There was no vehicular traffic, but there were riders—some upon horses, some upon camels, some upon the lizard-like roadrunners indigenous to Tarizeel, some upon beasts that were utterly strange even to the widely traveled Grimes.

The two explorers marched on, ignored by the brightly dressed natives, ignoring them. They should, Grimes knew, have tried to make contact, which would not have been hard. From the scraps of conversation they overheard it was obvious that Anglo-Terran was the language of this planet. They should have demanded to be taken to the king, president or whatever authority it was that ruled this world. But it was not important. What was important was to find the Ogre’s Keep, to awaken the sleeping princess. It was as though some outside power had taken control of them. The feeling should have been nightmarish, but it was not. Grimes was oddly grateful that somebody—or something—else was making the decisions that he should have been making.

The stream joined a river, and the path continued along the bank of the larger body of water, taking the two men clear of the city. They walked on steadily, feeling no fatigue, maintaining a brisk pace. They were away from the crowds of the city, met only an occasional pedestrian, and now and again a peasant man or woman pushing a barrow high-laden with produce in to market. One of these latter, a wizened, black-clad crone dragging a little cart fitted with pumpkins, accosted them. Raising high a skinny claw she declaimed in a cracked voice,

“Dare the dragon! Storm the Keep!

“Save us all from endless sleep!”

“The dragon, madam?” inquired Grimes politely.

But she was given no time to answer him. From the cloudless sky crackled a bolt of lightning, dazzling, terrifying, striking the path between her and the two men. She wailed, “I didn’t say anything! I didn’t say anything!” and was gone, scuttling toward the city, the cart bouncing along behind her, a trail of bruised and burst pumpkins in her wake.

“Somebody Up There doesn’t like her,” remarked Sanderson. Then, brightly, “Do you feel in the mood for dragon-slaying, sir?”

“Why not?” countered Grimes. After all, it would be no more outrageous than any of their other encounters to date.
Outrageous?
He repeated the word mentally. Where had he got it from? Nothing, so far, justified its use: the frog, the fairy in the spider’s web, all the talk of ogres’ keeps and sleeping princesses and dragons, it had all been perfectly natural. In any well-regulated world sleeping princesses were there to be awakened, and ogres’ keeps to be stormed, and the dragons to be slain. Of course, the way he and the young prince were dressed was all wrong—more like peasants than like knights errant. But that could not be helped. Disguise was allowable.

“Shall we press on, Your Highness?” he suggested.

“Yes, Sir John. No doubt the dragon awaits us eagerly.” Sanderson pulled the projectile pistol from its holster, spun it carelessly with his right forefinger through the trigger guard. “Methinks that our magic weapons will prove more efficacious than swords.”