First Command (39 page)

“I suppose I should be flattered,” admitted Grimes. “But I’m afraid that
I
shall never finish up as an admiral
and
as a colonial governor.”

“An’ that’s not what the black Captain Bligh was famous for, sorr!”

“The mutiny? His first one? But during that, as during the subsequent ones, he was more sinned against than sinning!”

“Not the way that Ned, here, recollects it, Captain.”

“Come off it, Mr. Flannery. There weren’t any dogs of any kind aboard the
Bounty.
”

The telepath stared at his grisly pet through bleary eyes, and his thick lips moved as he subvocalized his thoughts. Then: “Ned wasn’t there himself, o’ course, Captain, nor any of his blessed forefathers. But he still says as that was the way of it, that the wicked Captain Bligh drove his crew to mutiny, indeed he did.”

“Indeed he did not!” snapped Grimes, who had his own ideas about what had happened aboard the ill-fated
Bounty.

“If that’s the way ye feel about it, Captain,” murmured Flannery diplomatically.

“It
is
the way I feel about it.” And then, a sudden, horrid suspicion forming in his mind: “What
is
all this about Bligh and the
Bounty
!”
Are you suggesting. . . ?”

“Indeed I’m not, Captain. An’ as for Ned, here”—the waving hand just missed the tank and its gruesome contents—”would he be after tellin’ ye, if he could? He would not. He would niver be on the side o’ the oppressor.”

“Good for him,” remarked Grimes sardonically. He got up to leave. “And, Mr. Flannery, you might get this—this mess cleaned up a bit. I did mention it to Miss Russell, but she said that her girls aren’t kennelmaids. Those empty bottles . . . and that. . .
bone.
”

“But t’is only an old bone, Captain, with niver a shred o’ meat nor gristle left on it. Poor Terry—may the blessed saints be kind to the soul of him—knew it was there, an’ imagined it like it used to be. An’ Ned’s the same.”

“So it is essential to the efficient working of the amplifier?”

“Indeed it is, sorr.”

Grimes stirred the greasy, dog-eared playing cards, spread out on the table for a game of Canfield, with a gingerly forefinger. “And I suppose that these are essential to
your
efficient working?”

“Ye said it, Captain. An’ would ye deprive me of an innocent game of patience? An’ don’t the watch officers in the control room, when ye’re not around, set up games o’ three-dimensional noughts an’ crosses in the plottin’ tank, just to while away the weary hours? Ye’ve done it yerself, like enough.”

Grimes’s prominent ears flushed. He could not deny it—and if he did this telepath would know that he was lying.

“An’ I can do more wi’ these than play patience, Captain. Did I iver tell ye that I have Gypsy blood in me veins? Back in the Quid Isle me great, great granny lifted her skirts to a wanderin’ tinker. From him, an’ through her, I have the gift.” The grimy pudgy hands stacked the cards, shuffled them, and then began to rearrange them. “Would ye like a readin? Now?”

“No, thank you,” said Grimes as he left.

Chapter 8

Discovery
came to New Maine.

New Maine is not a major colony; its overall population barely tops the ten million mark. It is not an unpleasant world, although, even on the equator, it is a little on the chilly side. It has three moons, one so large as to be almost a sister planet, the other two little more than oversized boulders. It is orbited by the usual system of artificial satellites—communication, meteorological, and all the rest of it. The important industries are fisheries and fish processing; the so-called New Maine cod (which, actually, is more of a reptile than a true fish) is a sufficiently popular delicacy on some worlds to make its smoking, packaging, and export worthwhile.

A not very substantial contribution to the local economy is made by the Federation Survey Service sub-Base, which is not important enough to require a high ranking officer-in-charge, these duties being discharged by a mere commander, a passed-over one at that. At the time of
Discovery’s
visit this was a Commander Denny, a flabby, portly gentleman who looked and acted older than he actually was and who, obviously, had lost all interest in the job long since.

Shortly after berthing at the small, badly run-down naval spaceport, Grimes paid the usual courtesy call on the officer-commanding-base. It was not an occasion demanding full dress, with fore-and-aft hat, frock coat, sword, and all the rest of the anachronistic finery; nonetheless an OCB is an OCB, regardless of his actual rank. The temperature outside the ship was 17°, cool enough to make what Grimes thought of as his “grown-up trousers” comfortable. He changed from his shipboard shorts and shirt into his brass-buttoned, gold-braided black, put on his cap with the scrambled egg on its peak still undimmed by time, made his way down to the after airlock. The Marine on gangway duty, he was pleased to note, was smartly attired; obviously Major Swinton had taken the hints regarding the appearance of his men and, equally obviously, Sergeant Washington had cooperated to the full with his commanding officer in this respect.

The man saluted crisply. “Captain, sir!”

Grimes returned the salute. “Yes?”

“Are you expecting a ground car, sir? If one hasn’t been arranged, I’ll call one.”

“I’ll walk,” said Grimes. “The exercise will do me good.”

Discovery’s
ramp was still battered and shabby, although a few repairs had been made before departure from Lindisfarne. The ship herself was still showing her many years, the ineradicable signs of neglect as well as of age. But even she, who on her pad at the Main Base had looked like an elderly poor relation, here had the appearance of a rich aunt come a-visiting. Nobody expects to be obliged to eat his meals off a spaceport apron—but there are minimal standards of cleanliness that should be maintained. These were certainly not being maintained here. It was obvious that during the night some large animals had wandered across the expanse of concrete and treated it as a convenience. It was equally obvious that they had done the same during the previous night, and the night before. In addition, there were tall, straggling, ugly weeds thrusting up through ragged cracks, with dirty scraps of plastic and paper piling up around them, entangled with them.

The block of administration buildings toward which Grimes was heading, treading carefully to avoid getting his well-polished shoes dirty, was plain, functional—and like most functional constructions would have been pleasant enough in appearance if only it had been clean. But the wide windows were dull with an accumulation of dust and the entire facade was badly stained. Were there, Grimes wondered, flying creatures on this world as big as the animals that had fouled the apron? He looked up at the dull sky apprehensively. If there were, he hoped that they came out only at night. As he elevated his regard he noticed that the flagstaff atop the office block was not quite vertical and that the Survey Service ensign, flapping lazily in the light breeze, was ragged and dirty, and was not right up to the truck.

The main doors, as he approached them, slid open reluctantly with a distinctly audible squeak. In the hallway beyond them an elderly petty officer, in shabby grays, got slowly up from his desk as Grimes entered. He was not wearing a cap, so he did not salute; but neither did he stiffen to attention.

He asked, “Sir?”

“I am Commander Grimes, captain of
Discovery.
”

“Then you’ll be wanting to see the old—” He looked at the smartly uniformed Grimes and decided to start again. “You’ll be wanting to see Commander Denny. You’ll find him in his office, sir.” He led the way to a bank of elevators, pressed a button.

“Rather shorthanded, aren’t you?” remarked Grimes conversationally.

“Oh, no, sir. On a sub-Base like this it isn’t necessary to have more than the duty PO—which is me—manning Reception.”

“I was thinking about policing the spaceport apron,” said Grimes.

“Oh,
that!
”
The petty officer’s face did show a faint disgust.

“Yes. That.”

“But there’s nothing that we can do about the bastards, sir. They always did relieve themselves here, before there was a spaceport. They always will. Creatures of habit, like—”

“They?”

“The great snakes, sir. They’re called great snakes, though they’re not snakes at all, really. More of a sort of slug. Just imagine a huge sausage that eats at one end and—”

“I get the idea. But you could post guards, suitably armed.”

“But the great snakes are protected, sir. There’s only the one herd left on the entire planet.”

“Then why not a force field fence, with a nonlethal charge.”

“Oh, no, sir. That would never do. The Old Man’s wife—I beg pardon, sir, the commander’s wife—would never stand for it. She’s the chairlady of the New Maine Conservationist Association.”

“Mphm.” At this moment the elevator, which had taken its time about descending, arrived. The door opened. Grimes got into the car as the petty officer said, “Seventh deck, sir.” He pressed the right button and was carried slowly upward.. Commander Dennyoffice was as slovenly as his spaceport. Untidiness Grimes did not mind—he never set a good example himself in that respect—but real dirt was something else again. The drift of papers on Denny’s desk was acceptable, but the dust-darkened rings on its long-unpolished surface left by mugs of coffee or some other fluids were not. Like his petty officer in Reception, Denny was wearing a shabby gray uniform. So were the two women clerks. Grimes thought it highly probable that it was the elderly, unattractive one who did all the work. The other one was there for decoration—assuming that one’s tastes in decoration run to bold-eyed, plump, blonde, micro-skirted flirts.

The Base commander got slowly to his feet, extended a pudgy hand. “Commander Grimes?”

“In person.”

The two men shook hands. Denny’s grip was flabby.

“And these,” went on Denny, “are Ensign Tolley”—the older woman favored Grimes with a tight-lipped smile—“and Ensign Primm.” Miss Primm stared at the visitor haughtily. “But sit down, Grimes. You’re making my control room—ha, ha—look untidy.”

Grimes looked around. There were two chairs available in addition to those occupied by the clerks, but each of them held an overflow of paper.

“Sit down, man. Sit down. This is Liberty Hall. You can spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard.”

“I don’t see any cats,” said Grimes.
Not of the four-legged variety, anyhow,
he thought. “And to judge by the state of your spaceport apron, somebody, or something, has already been. . . er. . . spitting on the mat!”

Surprisingly it was the elderly ensign who laughed, then got up to clear the detritus from one of the chairs. Neither Denny nor the younger woman showed any amusement.

“And now, Commander,” asked Denny, “what can I do for you?”

“I shall require the use of your port facilities, Commander,” Grimes told him. “I’ll be wanting to replenish stores, and my chief engineer could do with some shore labor to lend a hand with his innies; he wants to take them down to find out why they’re working, and then he’ll have to put them together again. You know what engineers are.”

“Yes. I know. And then you’ll be off on your Lost Colony hunt, I suppose.”

“That’s what I’m being paid for. Have you heard any rumors of Lost Colonies out in this sector?”

“I’m just the OCB, Grimes. Nobody ever tells me anything.”

And would you be interested if they did?
Grimes wondered. He said, “Our lords and masters must have had something in mind when they sent me out this way.”

“And who knows what futile thoughts flicker through their tiny minds?
I
don’t.”

And you’ve got to the stage where you don’t much care, either,
thought Grimes. But he could not altogether blame the man. This dreary sub-Base on a dull world was obviously the end of the road for Denny. Here he would mark time until he reached retirement age. And what about himself? Would this sort of job be his ultimate fate if some admiral or politician upon whose corns he had trodden finally succeeded in having him swept under the carpet and forgotten?

“Oh, Commander,” said Denny, breaking into his thoughts.

“Yes, Commander?”

“You’ll be getting an official invitation later in the morning. It’s quite a while since we had one of our ships in here, so the mayor of Penobscot—that’s where the commercial spaceport is—is throwing an official party tonight. Bum freezers and decorations. You and your officers are being asked.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“The master of
Sundowner
should be there, too, with his people.”

“
Sundowner
!”

“She’s at Port Penobscot, loading fish. She’s a star tramp. Rim Worlds registry. She gets around.”

“Mphm. It could be worthwhile having a yarn with him.”

“It could be, Commander. These tramp skippers often stumble on things that our survey captains miss. Sometimes they report them, sometimes they don’t.”

“You can say that again, Commander. The last Lost Colony that I visited, Morrowvia, the Dog Star Line was trying to keep all to its little self. And it looks as though they’ll be able to do just that.” Grimes looked at his watch. Denny had made no move to offer him tea, coffee, or anything stronger, and it was past the time when he usually had his morning coffee aboard the ship. “I’d better be getting back to find out what disasters have been happening in my absence. And my departmental heads should have their requisitions ready for my autograph by now.”

“I’ll see you tonight, Commander,” said Denny.

“See you tonight, Commander Denny,” said Grimes.

As he let himself out he overheard the younger of the two women say, in a little-too-loud whisper, “Gawd save us all! What a stuck-up tailor’s dummy! I hope he treads in something on the way back to his rustbucket!”

Chapter 9

The mayor sent a small fleet
of ground cars to pick up
Discovery’s
officers. Grimes, resplendent in black and gold and stiff white linen, with his miniature decorations on their rainbow ribbons a-jingle on the left breast of his mess jacket, rode in the lead vehicle. He was accompanied by Brabham, Major Swinton, Dr. Brandt, and Vinegar Nell. The paymaster looked remarkably handsome in her severely cut, long-skirted evening dress uniform. Swinton, in his dress blue-and-scarlet, had transformed himself from a bad-tempered terrier into a gaudy and pugnacious psittacoid. Brabham (of course) was letting the side down. His mess uniform, when he extricated it from wherever it had been stowed, had proved to be unwearable, stained and creased, and far too tight a fit. He had compromised by wearing a black bow tie, instead of one of the up-and-down variety, with his not-too-shabby double-breasted black outfit. And Brandt, of course, had never possessed a suit of mess kit. He was wearing civilian evening dress, with the sash of some obscure order—the sash itself was far from obscure, being bright purple edged with gold—stretched across his shirt front.