First Command (10 page)

“Will Lieutenant Commander Grimes be along, sir?”

“No. He’ll be consorting with the top brass. After all, he is the commander of
Seeker
and, to use spaceman’s parlance, seems to pile on rather more G’s than the master of a merchantman . . . Yes, Brasidus, have yourself a nice visit with your boyfriend, and then report to me here tomorrow morning at 0730 hours, washed behind the ears and with all your brasswork polished.”

000111

Brasidus spent the evening with Achron before the latter reported for duty. It was not the first time that he had been a guest at the nurse’s Club—but it was the first time that he had felt uncomfortable there. Apart from his own feelings, it was no different from other occasions. There were the usual graceful, soft-spoken young men, proud and happy to play host to the hoplites who were their visitors. There was the usual food—far better cooked and more subtly seasoned than that served in the army messes. There was the usual wine—a little too sweet, perhaps, but chilled and sparkling. There was music and there was dancing—not the strident screaming of brass and the boom and rattle of drums, not the heavy thud of bare feet on the floor, but the rhythmic strumming of lutes and, to it, the slow gyrations of willowy bodies.

But . . .

But there was something lacking.

But what could be lacking?

“You are very thoughtful tonight, Brasidus,” remarked Achron wistfully.

“Am I?”

“Yes. You . . . you’re not with us, somehow.”

“No?”

“Brasidus, I have to be on duty soon. Will you come with me to my room?”

The Sergeant looked at his friend. Achron was a pretty boy, prettier than most, but he was not, he could never be, an Arcadian . . .

What am I thinking? he asked himself, shocked. Why am I thinking it?

He said, “Not tonight, Achron.”

“But what is wrong with you, Brasidus? You never used to be like this.” Then, with a sort of incredulous bitterness, “It can’t be one of the men from the ship, can it? No, not possibly. Not one of those great, hairy brutes. As well consort with one of those malformed aliens they’ve brought with them!” Achron laughed at the absurdity of the idea.

“No,” Brasidus told him. “Not one of the men from the ship.”

“Then it’s all right.”

“Yes, it’s all right. But I shall have a heavy day tomorrow.”

“You poor dear. I suppose that the arrival of this absurd spaceship from some uncivilized world has thrown a lot of extra work on you.”

“Yes. It has.”

“But you’ll walk with me to the créche, won’t you?”

“Yes. I’ll do that.”

“Oh, thank you. You can wait here while I get changed. There’s plenty of wine left.”

Yes, there was plenty of wine left, but Brasidus was in no mood for it. He sat in silence, watching the dancers, listening to the slow, sensuous thrumming. Did the Arcadians dance? And how would they look dancing, stripped for performance, the light gleaming on their smooth, golden skins? And why should the mere thought of it be so evocative of sensual imaginings?

Achron came back into the hall, dressed in his white working tunic. Brasidus got up from the bench, walked with him out into the night. The two friends made their way through the streets in silence at first, but it was not the companionable silence to which they had become used. Finally Brasidus spoke, trying to keep any display of real interest out of his voice.

“Wouldn’t it be better if you nurses lived in at the créche? The same as we do in the barracks.”

“Then we shouldn’t have these walks, Brasidus.”

“You could visit me.”

“But I don’t like your barracks. And your Club’s as bad.”

“I suppose that the cooking could be improved in both. Just who does live in at the créche?”

“All the doctors, of course. And there are some engineers who look after the machinery.”

“No helots?”

“No. Of course not.” Achron was shocked at the idea. “Even we—but, after all, Brasidus, we are helots—have to live outside. But you know all that. Why are you asking me?”

That was a hard counterquestion to answer. At last Brasidus said, “There have been rumors . . .”

“Rumors of what?”

“Well, it’s a very large building. Even allowing for the wards and the birth machine, there must be ample space inside. Do you think that the staff doctors and engineers could have . . . friends living with them?”

It was Achron’s turn to hesitate. “You could be right, Brasidus. There are so many rules telling us that we must not stray away from our wards. Now that you raise the point, I can see that there has always been an atmosphere of . . . of secrecy . . .”

“And have you ever seen or heard anything?”

“No.”

“And do the staff doctors and engineers have any friends among the nurses?”

“They wouldn’t look as us.” Resentment was all too evident in Achron’s voice. “They’re too high and mighty. Keep themselves to themselves, that’s what they do. And their own accommodation, I’ve heard, the King himself might envy. They’ve a heated swimming pool, even. I’ve never seen it, but I’ve heard about it. And I’ve seen the food and the wine that come in. Oh, they do themselves well—far better than us, who do all the work.”

“There might be inquiries being made,” said Brasidus cautiously.

“There are always inquiries being made. That Captain Diomedes wanted me to work for him. But he’s not . . . he’s not a gentleman. We didn’t get on. Why should I help him?”

“Would you help me?”

“And how can I, Brasidus?”

“Just look and listen. Let me know of anything out of the ordinary in the créche.”

“But the doctors can do no wrong,” said Achron. “And even if they did, they couldn’t. You know what I mean.”

“In your eyes, you mean?”

“In my eyes,” admitted the nurse. “But for you, and only for you, I’ll . . . I’ll look and listen. Does it mean promotion for you?”

“It does,” said Brasidus.

“Are you coming in?” asked Achron as they reached the entrance to the créche.

“No. I shall have a long and wearing day tomorrow.”

“You . . . you don’t give me much inducement to help you, do you? If I do, will things be the same between us again?”

“Yes,” lied Brasidus.

Chapter 15

BRASIDUS DROVE OUT
to the spaceport in the car that had been placed at his disposal. He realized that he was looking forward to what he had told Achron would be a long and wearing day. He enjoyed the freshness of the morning air, looked up with appreciation at the Spartan Navy still, in perfect formation, circling the landing field. But now he did not, as he had done so many times in the past, envy the airmen. He was better off as he was. If he were up there, a crew member of one of the warships, even the captain of one of them, he would not be meeting the glamorous, exotic spacefarersmost certainly would not, in the course of duty, be spending the entire day with one of them.

Margaret Lazenby was already ashore, was waiting in Diomedes’ office, was engaged in conversation with the Security captain. Brasidus heard his superior say, “I’m sorry, Doctor Lazenby, but I cannot allow you to carry weapons. The cameras and recording equipment—yes. But not that pistol. Laser, isn’t it?”

“It is. But, damn it all, Diomedes, on this cockeyed world of yours my going about unarmed degrades me to the status of a helot.”

“And the Arcadians are not helots?”

“No. It should be obvious, even to a Security officer. Would a helot hold commissioned rank in the Federation’s Survey Service?”

“Then if you possess warrior’s status, your being let loose with a weapon of unknown potentialities is even worse insofar as we are concerned.” The fat man, facing Margaret Lazenby’s glare with equanimity, allowed himself to relent. “All right. Leave your pistol here, and I’ll issue you with a stun gun.”

“I shall not leave my weapon here. Will you be so good as to put me through to the ship so that I can tell the duty officer to send somebody ashore to pick it up?”

“All right.” Diomedes punched a few buttons on his board, picked up the handset, spoke into it briefly, then handed it to the Arcadian. He turned to Brasidus. “So you’ve arrived. Attention!” Brasidus obeyed with a military crash and jangle. “Let’s look at you. H’m, brass not too bad, but your leatherwork could do with another polish . . . But you’re not going anywhere near the palace, so I don’t suppose it matters. At ease! Stand easy! In fact, relax.”

Meanwhile, Margaret Lazenby had finished speaking into the telephone. She returned the instrument to its rest. She stood there, looking down at the obese Diomedes sprawled in his chair—and Brasidus looked at her. She was not in uniform, but was wearing an open-necked shirt with a flaring collar cut from some soft, brown material, and below it a short kilt of the same color. Her legs were bare, and her slim feet were thrust into serviceable-looking sandals. At her belt was a holstered weapon of unfamiliar design. The cross straps from which depended her equipment—camera, sound recorder, binoculars—accentuated the out-thrusting fleshy mounds on her chest that betrayed her alien nature.

She was, obviously, annoyed, and when she spoke it was equally obvious that she was ready and willing to transfer her annoyance to Brasidus. “Well, Brasidus,” she demanded. “Seen enough? Or would you like me to go into a song and dance routine for you?”

“I . . . I was interested in that weapon of yours.”

“Is that all?” For some obscure reason Brasidus’ reply seemed to annoy her still further. And then a junior officer from
Seeker
came in, and Margaret Lazenby unbuckled the holstered pistol from her belt, handed it to the young spaceman. She accepted the stun gun from Diomedes, unholstered it, looked at it curiously. “Safety catch? Yes. Firing stud? H’m. We have similar weapons. Nonlethal, but effective enough. Oh, range?”

“Fifty feet,” said Diomedes.

“Not very good. Better than nothing, I suppose.” She clipped the weapon to her belt. “Come on, Brasidus. We’d better get out of here before he has me stripped to a peashooter and you polishing your belt and sandals.”

“Your instructions, sir?” Brasidus asked Diomedes.

“Instructions? Oh, yes. Just act as guide and escort to Doctor Lazenby. Show her what you can of the workings of our economy—fields, factories . . . you know. Answer her questions as long as there’s no breach of security involved. And keep your own ears flapping.”

“Very good, sir. Oh, expenses . . .”

“Expenses, Brasidus?”

“There may be meals, an occasional drink . . .”

Diomedes sighed, pulled a bag of coins out of a drawer, dropped it with a clank on to the desk. “I know just how much is in this and I shall expect a detailed account of what you spend. Off with you. And, Doctor Lazenby, I expect you to bring Brasidus, here, back in good order and condition.”

Brasidus saluted, then followed the spaceman out through the doorway.

She said, as soon as they were outside the building, “Expenses?”

“Yes, Doctor . . .”

“Call me Peggy.”

“I have rations for the day in the car, Peggy, but I didn’t think they were . . . suitable. Just bread and cold meat and a flagon of wine from the mess at the barracks.”

“And so . . . and so you want to impress me with something better?”

“Why, yes,” admitted Brasidus with a certain surprise.

“Yes.” (And it was strange, too, that he was looking forward to buying food and drink for this alien, even though the wherewithal to do so came out of the public purse. On Sparta every man was supposed to pay for his own entertainment, although not always in cash. In this case, obviously, there could be no reciprocation. Or could there be? But it did not matter.)

And then, with even greater surprise, Brasidus realized that he was helping Margaret Lazenby into the hovercar. Even burdened as she was, she did not need his assistance, but she accepted it as her due. Brasidus climbed in after her, took his seat behind the control column. “Where to?” he asked.

“That’s up to you. I’d like a good tour. No, not the city—shall be seeing plenty of that when I accompany John—Commander Grimes—on his official calls. What about the countryside and the outlying villages? Will that be in order?”

“It will, Peggy,” Brasidus said. (And why should the use of that name be so pleasurable?)

“And if you’ll explain things to me as you drive . . .”

The car lifted on its air cushion in a flurry of dust, moved forward, out through the main gateway, and for the first few miles headed toward the city.

“The spice fields,” explained Brasidus with a wave of his hand. “It’ll soon be harvest time, and then the two ships from Latterhaven will call for the crop.”

“Rather . . . overpowering. The smell, I mean. Cinnamon, nutmeg, almond, but more so . . . And a sort of mixture of sage and onion and garlic. But those men working in the fields with hoes and rakes, don’t you have mechanical cultivators?”

“But why should we? I suppose that machines could be devised, but such mechanical tools would throw the helots out of employment.”

“But you’d enjoy vastly increased production and would be able to afford a greater tonnage of imports from Latterhaven.”

“But we are already self-sufficient.”

“Then what do you import from Latterhaven?”

Brasidus creased his brows. “I . . . I don’t know, Peggy,” he admitted. “We are told that the ships bring manufactured goods.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know.” Then he recalled the strange book that he had seen in the créche. “Books, perhaps.”

“What sort of books?”

“I don’t know, Peggy. The doctors keep them for themselves. But we turn off here. We detour the city and run through the vineyards.”

The road that they were now following was little more than a track, running over and around the foothills, winding through the terraced vineyards on either side. As far as the eye could see the trellises were sagging under the weight of the great, golden fruit, each at least the size of a man’s head, the broad, fleshy leaves. Brasidus remarked, “This has been a good year for grapes.”

“Grapes? Are those things grapes?”

“What else could they be?” Brasidus stopped the car, got out, scrambled up the slope to the nearest vine. With his knife he hacked through a tough stem, then carried the ripe, glowing sphere back to Peggy. She took it, hefted it in her two hands, peered at it closely, sniffed it. “Whatever this is,” she declared, “it ain’t no grape—not even a grapefruit. Something indigenous, I suppose. Is it edible?”