First Command (18 page)

“The situation would not have continued,” stated Heraklion. “As I’ve told you, Commander, it was our intention to introduce a reversion to—the normal way of birth.”

“That’s your story and you stick to it. It could be true, I suppose; it would account for the way that Diomedes hated you.” He refilled and relit his pipe. “The question is, what happens now?”

“What does happen?” asked Admiral Ajax.

“To begin with, I’ve been recalled to base. I shall have to make my report. It is possible that the Federation will replace your birth machine—although, come to that, you should be able to import materials and technicians from Latterhaven. You might even be able to build a new one for yourselves. But . . .

“But the Federation is apt to be a little intolerant of transplanted human cultures that deviate too widely from the norm. Your monosexual society, for example—and, especially, your charming custom of Exposure. This is your world and, as far as I’m concerned, you’re welcome to it. I’m a firm believer in the fifth freedom—the freedom to go to hell your own way. But you’ve never heard a politician up on his hind legs blathering about the Holy Spirit of Man. If you want to reconstruct your society in your own way, in your own time, you’ll have to fight—not necessarily with swords and spears, with guns and missiles—for the privilege.

“I advise strongly that you send a representative with us, somebody who’ll be able to talk sense with my lords and masters, somebody who’ll be able to take a firm line.”

“There’s Brasidus,” said Peggy Lazenby softly, looking directly at him. You and I have unfinished business, her eyes said.

“Yes, there’s Brasidus,” agreed Grimes. “After all, he knows us.”

And he’ll get to know us better. The unspoken words, her unuttered thought, sounded like a caressing voice in Brasidus’ mind.

“But we need him,” said Heraklion.

“A first-class officer,” confirmed Ajax. “He has what’s left of the Police eating out of his hand.”

“I think that one of my colleagues would be a better choice as emissary,” said Heraklion.

“So,” murmured Grimes. “So . . .” He looked steadily across his desk at the Spartans. “It’s up to you, Lieutenant or Colonel or whatever you are. It’s up to you. I’m sure that Admiral Ajax will be able to manage without you—on the other hand, I’m sure that Doctor Heraklion’s friend will prove a quite suitable envoy.

“It’s up to you.”

It’s up to me, Brasidus thought. He looked at the woman sitting beside the space commander—and suddenly he was afraid. Diomedes’ words about the frightening powers wielded by this sex lingered still in his mind. But, in the final analysis, it was not fear that prompted his answer, but a strong sense of responsibility, of loyalty to his own world. He knew—as the aliens did not, could never know—how precarious still was the balance of power. He knew that, with himself in command—effective if not titular—of the ground forces, peace might be maintained, the reconstruction be commenced.

“It’s up to you,” said Peggy Lazenby.

He said firmly, “I’d better stay.”

She laughed, and Brasidus wondered if he alone were aware of the tinkling malice that brought an angry flush to his face. “Have it your own way, sweet. But I warn you, when those tough, pistol-toting biddies of the Galactic Peace Corps get here, you’ll wonder what’s struck you.”

“That will do, Peggy.” Grimes’ voice snapped with authority. “That will do. Now, gentlemen, you must excuse us. We have to see our ship secured for space. How soon can you get your envoy here, Doctor Heraklion?”

“About an hour, Commander.”

“Very good. We shall lift ship as soon as he’s on board.” He got to his feet, shook hands with the three Spartans. “It’s been a pleasure working with you. It’s a great pity that it was not in pleasanter circumstances.”

This was dismissal. Ajax in the lead, the three men walked out of Grimes’ cabin. Brasidus, bringing up the rear, heard Peggy Lazenby say softly, “The poor bastard!”

And he heard Grimes reply, in a voice that held an unexpected bitterness, “I don’t know. I don’t know. He could be lucky.”

For a long while Brasidus wondered what they meant, but the day came at last when he found out.

THE
INHERITORS

For my favorite aelurophobe

To:
Flag Officer in Charge of Lindisfarne Base

From: Drongo Kane

Subject: Piratical action by Lieutenant Commander John Grimes

Sir,

I regret to have to report that while my vessel was proceeding on her lawful occasions she was wantonly attacked by your
Seeker, under
the command of your Lieutenant Grimes. Commander Grimes not only used his armament to impede the embarkation of fare-paying passengers, subjecting them to a sleep gas barrage, but also fired upon
Southerly Buster
herself
.
Later he attempted to ram my ship after she had lifted off . . .

GRIMES IS AT IT AGAIN!

1

Grimes was on the carpet—
neither for the first nor the last time.

He stood stiffly in front of the vast, highly polished desk behind which sat Admiral Buring, of the Federation’s Survey Service. His prominent ears were angrily flushed but his rugged face was expressionless.

The admiral’s pudgy hands played with the bulky folder that was before him. His face, smooth and heavy, was as expressionless as Grimes’. His voice was flat.

He said, “Commodore Damien warned me about you when you were transferred to my command. Not that any warning was necessary. For one so young you have achieved a considerable degree of notoriety.” He paused expectantly, but Grimes said nothing. Buring continued, but now with a hint of feeling in his voice. “My masters—who, incidentally, are also yours—are far from amused at your latest antics. You know—you
should
know—that interference, especially by junior officers, in the internal affairs of any world whatsoever, regardless of the cultural or technological level of the planet in question, is not tolerated. I concede that there were extenuating circumstances, and that the new rulers of Sparta speak quite highly of you . . . .” The thick eyebrows, like furry, black caterpillars, arched incredulously. “Nonetheless . . .”

The silence was so thick as to be almost tangible. Grimes decided that it was incumbent upon himself to break it.

“Sir?”

“Nonetheless, Lieutenant Commander, your continued presence at Base is something of an embarrassment, especially since a party of VIPs, political VIPs at that, is due here very shortly. Some commission or other, touring the galaxy at the taxpayer’s expense. I don’t want you around so that politicians can ask you silly questions—to which, I have no doubt, you would give even sillier answers.

“Furthermore, this whole Spartan affair has blown up into a minor crisis in interplanetary politics. Both the Duchy of Waldegren and the Empire of Waverley are talking loudly about spheres of influence.

”The admiral allowed himself the suspicion of a smile. “In any sort of crisis, Grimes, there is one thing better than presence of mind . . . .”

“And that is, sir?” asked Grimes at last.

“Absence of body. Ha. So I’m doing you a good turn, sending you out in
Seeker,
on a Lost Colony hunt. There have been persistent rumors of one out in the Argo Sector. Go and find it—or get lost yourself. I’m easy.”

“Maintenance, sir . . .” said Grimes slowly. “Repairs . . . stores . . . manning . . . .”

“They’re your business, Captain. No, I’m not promoting you, merely according you the courtesy title due to the commanding officer of a ship. You look after those no doubt boring details. And”—he made a major operation of looking at his watch—“I want you off Lindisfarne by sixteen-hundred hours local time tomorrow.”

Grimes looked at his own watch. He had just seventeen hours, twelve minutes and forty-three seconds in which to ensure that his ship was, in all respects, ready for space. Maintenance, he knew, was well in hand. There were no crew deficiencies. Taking aboard essential stores would not occupy much time.

Even so . . .

“I’d better be getting on with it, sir,” he said.

“You’d bloody well better. I’ll send your orders down to you later.”

Grimes put on his cap, saluted smartly and strode out of the admiral’s office.

2

She was a survey ship
rather than a warship, was
Seeker.
The Survey Service, in its first beginnings, had been just that—a survey service. But aliens being what they are—and humans being what
they
are—police work, on large and small scales, had tended to become more important than mere exploration and charting. The Survey Service, however, had not quite forgotten its original function. It maintained a few ships designed for peaceful rather than warlike pursuits, and
Seeker
was a member of this small squadron. Nonetheless, even she packed quite a wallop.

Lieutenant Commander John Grimes was her captain. His last assignment, during which he had stumbled upon a most peculiar Lost Colony, had been census taking. Now he had been actually sent out to
find
a Lost Colony. He suspected that
anything
might happen, and probably would. It wasn’t that he was accident prone. He was just a catalyst.

Nothing had happened yet; after all, it was early in the voyage. He had lifted from Lindisfarne exactly on time, driving through the atmosphere smoothly and easily, maintaining his departure trajectory until he was clear of the Base Planet’s Van Allens. Then, with the inertial drive shut down, the ship had been turned about her short axis until she was lined up, with due allowance for drift, on the target star. The Mannschenn Drive had been started, the inertial drive restarted—and passage was commenced.

Satisfied, he had filled and lit his pipe, and when it was going well had ordered, “Deep space routine, Mr. Saul.” He had made his way to his quarters below and abaft the control room and then, ensconced in his easy chair, had opened the envelope containing his orders.

The first sheet of the bundle of papers had contained nothing startling.
You will proceed to the vicinity of the star Gamma Argo and conduct a preliminary survey of the planets in orbit about same, devoting especial attention to any of such bodies capable of supporting human life.
“Mphm . . . “he grunted. The rest of the page consisted of what he referred to as “the usual guff.”

At the head of the next page was the sentence that brought an expression of interest to his face.

We have reason to believe that there is a humanoid—or possibly human—settlement on the fourth planet of this system. Should this settlement exist it is probable that it is a hitherto undiscovered Lost Colony. You are reminded that your duties are merely to conduct an investigation, and that you are not, repeat not, to interfere in the internal affairs of the colony.

“Mphm,” grunted Grimes again. Noninterference was all very well, but at times it was hard to maintain one’s status as a mildly interested spectator.

Appended hereto are reports from our agents at Port Llangowan, on Siluria, at Port Brrooun, on Drroomoorr, at Port Mackay, on Rob Roy, at Port Forinbras, on Elsinore, at . . .

“Mphm.” The Intelligence Branch seemed to be earning its keep, for a change. Grimes turned to the first report and read:

From Agent X1783 (Commander, I.B.,F.S.S.)

Dated at Port Llangowan, May 5, Year 171 Silurian (17113157 TS)

To O.I.C. Intelligence, Federation’s Survey Service, Port Woomera, Centralia, Earth.

Sir,

POSSIBLE LOST COLONY IN ARGO SECTOR

I
have to report the possibility that there is a hitherto undiscovered Lost Colony in the Argo Sector, apparently on a planet in orbit about Gamma Argo.

It is my custom, whilst stationed on this world, to spend my evenings in the Red Dragon tavern, a hostelry that seems to be the favorite drinking place of whatever merchant spacemen are in port.

On the evening of May 3 several officers from the Dog Star Line’s
Pomeranian
were lined up at the bar, and were joined there by officers of the same company’s
Corgi,
newly berthed. As was to be expected, the personnel of the two vessels were old friends or acquaintances.

The table at which I was seated was too far from the bar for me to overhear the conversation, but I was able to make use of my Mark XVII recorder, playing the recording back later that night in the privacy of my lodgings. The spool has been sent to you under separate cover, but herewith is a suitably edited transcript of what was said, with everything of no importance—e.g. the usual friendly blasphemies, obscenities and petty company gossip—deleted.

First Mate of
Pomeranian:
And where the hell have you been hiding yourselves? You should have been in before us. I suppose that you got lost.

Second Mate of Corgi: I never get lost.

First Mate of
Pomeranian:
Like hell you don’t. I remember when you got your sums wrong when we were together in the old
Dalmatian,
and we finished up off Hamlet instead of Macbeth . . . But what’s twenty light-years between friends?

Second Mate of Corgi: I told you all that the computer was on the blink, but nobody would listen to me. As for this trip, we had to deviate.

First Mate of Corgi: Watch it, Peter!

Second Mate of Corgi: Why?

First Mate of
Corgi:
You know what the old man told us.

Second Mate of Corgi: Too bloody right I do. He’s making his own report to the general manager, with copies every which way. Top Secret. For your eyes only. Destroy by fire before reading. He’s wasted in the Dog Star Line. He should have been in the so-called Intelligence Branch of the clottish Survey Service.

First Mate of
Pomeranian:
What
did
happen?

First Mate of Corgi: Nothing much. Mannschenn Drive slightly on the blink, so we had to find a suitable planet on which to park our arse while we recalibrated.

Second Mate of
Corgi:
And what a planet! You know how I like
sleek
women . . . .