First Command (66 page)

Mavis whispered, “It could have happened to you . . .”

Grimes said, “It should have happened to me. I was in charge. I should have checked those wires for deterioration.”

The Baroness said, “I shall arrange for more than merely adequate compensation to be paid to Captain Wheeldon’s relatives.”

“Money!” flared Mavis. “It’s all that you and your kind ever think of! If you hadn’t grabbed the chance of makin’ a few dollars on the side by usin’ your precious yacht as a tugboat this would never’ve happened!”

The Baroness said, “I am sorry. Believe me, I’m sorry . . .”

“Look!” cried Shirley, pointing upward.

They looked. Ports had opened along
Vega’s
sleek sides, in the plating over turrets and sponsons. The snouts of weapons, cannon and laser projectors, protruded, hunting, like the questing antennae of some giant insect.

“Here it comes,” said Mavis glumly. “The ulti-bloody-ma-tum. Give us Grimes—or else. . .” She stiffened. “But I’m not giving any cobber o’ mine to those Terry bastards!”

Yet there was no ultimatum, no vastly amplified voice roaring over the sports arena. The guns ceased their restless motion but were not withdrawn, however.

“Just Frankie making sure that everything’s in working order,” said Grimes at last.

“Leave him to play with his toys,” said Mavis. “Come on home an’ get cleaned up.” She turned to the El Doradan woman. “You comin’ with us, Baroness?” The tone of her voice made it obvious that she did not expect the invitation to be accepted.

“No, thank you, Your Ladyship. I must go aboard my yacht to see what must be done to make her spaceworthy again.”

“C’m’on,” said Mavis to Grimes and Shirley.

They walked slowly toward the main gates. All at once they were surrounded by a mob of men clad in white flannel with absurd little caps on their heads, with gaudily colored belts supporting their trousers, brandishing cricket bats.

“Terry bastard go home!” they chanted. “Terry bastard go home!”

I’ve got no home to go to,
thought Grimes glumly. “Bury the bastard in the holes he dug in our cricket pitch!” yelled somebody.

“Burying’s too good!” yelled somebody else. “Cut ‘im in two, same as he did Skipper Wheeldon!”

“It was an accident!” shouted Mavis. “Now, away with yer! Let us through!”

“I’m checker takin’ orders from you, you fat cow!” growled a man who seemed to be the ringleader, a hairy, uncouth brute against whom Grimes, in any circumstances at all, would have taken an instant dislike. “An’ as it’s too long ter wait for the next election . . .”

He raised his bat.

From
Vega
came a heavy rattle of automatic fire and the sky between the ship and the mob was suddenly brightly alive with tracers. Had the aim not been deliberately high there would have been sudden and violent death on the ground. Again the guns fired, and again—then Grimes and the two women found themselves standing safe and no longer molested while the cricketers bolted for cover. Three bats and a half dozen or so caps littered the trampled grass.

“And
now
what?” asked Mavis in a shaken voice.

“Just Frankie, as a good little Survey Service commander, rallying to the support of the civil authority,” said Grimes at last. Then—“But where the hell were
your
police?”

“That big, bearded bastard,” muttered Mavis, “just happens to be a senior sergeant . . .”

Then Tanner, with a squad of uniformed men, arrived belatedly to escort the mayoral party to the palace. The City Constable was neither as concerned nor as apologetic as he should have been.

Chapter 7

The next day was a heavy one
for Grimes. There were, as yet, no Lloyd’s Surveyors on Botany Bay; nonetheless
The Far Traveler
was required to have a fresh Certificate of Spaceworthiness issued to her before she could lift from the surface of the planet. Of course, the Baroness could depart without such documentation if she so wished— but without it her ship would not be covered by the underwriters. And she was, for all her title and air of elegant decadence, a shrewd businesswoman.

She called Grimes to her presence. The robot butler ushered him into the lady’s boudoir where she, flimsily clad as usual, was seated at her beautiful, fragile-seeming, pseudo-antique desk. She was wearing the heavy-rimmed spectacles again, was studying a thick, important-looking book.

“Ah, good morning, Acting Port Captain . . . Now, this matter of insurance . . . As you already know, Commander Delamere’s artificers were obliged to pierce my hull to fit the towing lugs. Today they are making the damage good as required by the contract. After these repairs have been completed a survey must be carried out.”

“By whom, Your Excellency?” asked Grimes.

“By you, of course, Port Captain. You will receive the usual fee.”

“But I’m not a surveyor . . .”

“You are the Port Captain.” A slim index finger tipped with a long, gold-enameled nail stabbed down at the open pages. “Listen.
On planets where Lloyd’s maintain neither offices, agents nor surveyors Lloyd’s Certificates may be endorsed or issued by such planetary officials as are deemed competent by the Corporation to carry out such functions. Port Captains, Port Engineers, etc., etc. . . . Commanding officers of vessels or bases of the Interstellar Federation’s Survey Service. . .”
She smiled briefly. “I have no intention of paying a surveyor’s fee to your friend Commander Delamere. In any case, as his people are making the repairs he is ruled out.” She read more.
“Commanding officers of vessels or bases of the Imperial Navy of Waverley.
No, I’m not going to wait around until that Waverley cruiser—
Robert Bruce,
isn’t it?—condescends to drop in. So . . .”

“So I’m it,” said Grimes.

“Elegantly expressed, Acting Port Captain. But I suggest that you accept guidance from the computer. After all, she is the ship’s brain. She
is
the ship—just as your intelligence is
you—
and is fully capable of self diagnosis.”

“Mphm,” grunted Grimes. He wanted to pull his vile pipe out of his pocket, to fill it and light it, but knew that to ask permission so to do would bring a rebuff. He said, “So you need a Lloyd’s Surveyor as much—or as little—as you need a captain.”

She said, “I need neither—but Lloyd’s of London insist that I must have both. And now may I suggest that you get on with your surveying?”

Bitch,
thought Grimes.
Rich bitch. Rich, spoiled bitch.
He said, “Very well, Your Excellency,” bowed stiffly and left her presence.

The humanoid robot in butler’s livery led him to the elevator. The upward ride was such a short one that it would have been far less trouble to have used the spiral staircase that ornately entwined the axial shaft. Billinger was waiting in his own quarters for Grimes.

The yachtmaster was not uncomfortably housed; masters of Alpha Class liners or captains of Zodiac Class cruisers would not have complained about such accommodation. The keynote was one of masculine luxury—deep armchairs upholstered in genuine black leather, a low, glass-topped coffee table standing on sturdy, ebony legs, bookshelves all along one bulkhead, well stocked with volumes in gilt and maroon leather bindings, a gold and ebony liquor cabinet, a huge playmaster encased in gold-trimmed paneling of the same expensive timber. Holograms glowed on the other bulkheads— bright windows looking out on seascapes and mountainscapes and, inevitably, an Arcadian beach scene with the inevitable sun-bronzed, sun-bleached blonde in the foreground.”

“She does you well, Captain,” commented Grimes.

“Careful, Captain,” said Billinger. “Big Sister is watching. And listening.” He gestured toward the playmaster, the screen of which seemed to be dead, “Coffee?”

“Please.”

Almost immediately a girl, a stewardess, came in, carrying a tray. It was a golden tray, of course, with golden coffee pot, cream jug and sugar bowl, gold-chased china. And the girl was also golden, wearing a short-skirted black uniform over a perfectly proportioned body that gleamed metallically.

She set the tray on the table, lifted the pot and poured. “Sugar, sir?” she asked. “Cream?”

The mechanical quality of her golden voice was barely discernible.

“Quite a work of art,” remarked Grimes when she was gone.

“I’d sooner have something less good-looking in soft plastic,” said Billinger coarsely. “But I’ve been making up for lost time on this world! Too bloody right—as the natives say—I have!”

“Big Sister. . .” murmured Grimes, looking meaningfully toward the playmaster.

“So what?” demanded Billinger belligerently. “I’m human, not a mess of printed circuits and fluctuating fields. It took humans to handle the raising of
Vega,
not the bastard offspring of an electronic calculator and a library bank!”

“The
first
time, Captain Billinger,” said a cold, mechanical yet somehow feminine voice from the playmaster. “But should a set of similar circumstances arise in the future I shall be quite capable of handling operations myself.”

“Big Sister?” asked Grimes.

“In person,” growled Billinger. “Singing and dancing.”

“For your information, gentlemen,” went on the voice, “the artificers from the destroyer have now commenced work on my stern. I would have preferred to carry out the work with my own GP robots but Her Excellency maintained that Commander Delamere must adhere to the terms of the contract. Be assured, however, that I am keeping the workmen under close observation and shall not tolerate any shoddy workmanship.”

“Even so,” said Grimes, “we had better go down and see what’s happening.”

“That will not be necessary, Acting Port Captain. I shall not lift from this planet until I am completely satisfied as to my spaceworthiness.”

“
I
shall be signing the certificate, not you,” said Grimes harshly.

He drained his cup—he would have liked more of that excellent coffee but this uppity robot was spoiling his enjoyment of it—put it back on the table with a decisive clatter, got to his feet.

“Coming, Billinger?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the yachtmaster.

The two men made their way to the axial shaft, to the waiting elevator, and made a swift descent to the after airlock.

Vega’s
technicians were working under one of the destroyer’s engineer lieutenants. This officer turned his head as Grimes and Billinger came down the ramp, straightened up reluctantly and accorded them a surly salute. He knew Grimes, of course, and like all of
Vega’s
personnel blamed him for what had happened to that ship. He did not know Billinger, nor did he much want to.

Grimes watched the artificers at work. Scaffolding had been erected under
The Far Traveler’s
stern, a light but strong framework of aluminum rods and plates. Power cables snaked over the trampled grass from the destroyer to the equipment in use. That seemed odd. Surely it would have been less trouble to use the output from the yacht’s generators for the drilling, cutting and welding. He said as much to Billinger.

The engineer overheard. He said bitterly,
“She
wouldn’t allow it.”

“The Baroness?” asked Grimes.

“No. Not her. It’s not her voice that’s doing all the yapping. Some other . . . lady. He raised his own voice an octave in not very convincing mimicry. “ ‘Why should
I
supply the power to repair the damage that
you
have done to me? Why should I wear out
my
generators?’” He paused. “And that’s not the worst of it. She hasn’t actually showed herself but she must have spy eyes planted, and concealed speakers. Nag, nag, nag . . .”

The voice came from nowhere, everywhere. Grimes had heard it before, in Billinger’s cabin. “Careful, you men. Careful. I’m not some duty great battleship that you’re patching up. I take pride in
my
appearance, even if you take none in yours. I shall expect that scratch filled and then buffed to a mirror finish.”

“Who the hell
is
she?” demanded the lieutenant

“Big Sister,” Billinger told him, his voice smug and almost happy.

“Big Sister? She sounds more like some wives I’ve heard.”

“Not mine,” said Billinger. “Not mine. Not that I’ve ever had one—but when I do she’ll not be like that.”

“They never are,” said the other philosophically, “until after you’ve married them.”

“Captain Billinger, may I suggest that you abandon this futile discussion and take some interest in the repairs? And Mr. Verity, please supervise the activities of those ham-handed apes of yours. I distinctly said that each plug must be machined to a tolerance of one micromillimeter or less. I will
not
accept ugly cracks filled in with clumsy welding.”

“It’s all very well,” expostulated the engineer, “but
we
don’t carry a stock of that fancy gold your ship is built from. We
could
use ordinary gold—but you’ve already said that that won’t do.”

“And what happened to the metal that your men drilled out?”

“There were . . . losses. There are always losses.”

And how many of Vega’s mechanics,
wondered Grimes,
will be giving pretty little trinkets to their popsies back on Lindisfarne?

“Very well,” said the voice of the computer-pilot. “I shall supply you with gold. Please wait at the foot of the ramp.”

The men waited. A female figure appeared in the after airlock and then walked gracefully down the gangway. It was Billinger’s robot stewardess. The spacemen whistled wolfishly until, suddenly, they realized that she was not human. One of them muttered, a bleeding shame to melt
her
down. . .”

She was carrying a golden tray and on it a teapot of the same metal, a milk jug and a sugar bowl. Wordlessly she handed these to one of the artificers.

“My
tea service!” exclaimed Billinger.

“Nothing aboard me is yours, Captain,” Big Sister told him. “As long as you are employed you are allowed the use of certain equipment.”

“What
is
all this?” asked the engineer.

“Just do as
she
says,” muttered Billinger. “Melt down my teapot and make it snappy. Otherwise she’ll be having the buttons and braid off my uniform . . .”