Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III (36 page)

“Is there any damage to the ship, Grimes?” demanded Marston.

“Only minor,” replied Grimes curtly. He turned to face the reporters. He said, “I’m glad to be back. I’m gladder still to be back in one piece. I . . .”

“That will do, Captain,” said Wendover.

“I’d like a few words with Grimes,” said Marston.

“
Captain
Grimes,” said Wendover, “must discuss his business affairs with the Guild’s legal counsel before he talks to anybody else.”

“That is his right,” said the Chief Constable, who obviously did not like Marston.

“I’d like to change,” said Grimes. He was still wearing his spacesuit and wanted to get into the comfortable tunic and slacks that were in the bag that he was carrying.

“In my office,” said Wendover.

“Do not forget,” Marston said, “that the spacesuit is the property of the Interstellar Shipping Corporation of Bronsonia.”

“Surely, Mr. Marston,” said the fat girl, “you can afford to let the captain have a souvenir of his adventurous voyage.”

The shipowner snarled wordlessly.

“Come on, Captain,” said Wendover. “This way. My car.”

***

“What was all that about?” asked Grimes during the drive to the city.

“Marston’s in none too happy a financial situation,” said Wendover. “Oh, he’s not broke. He could still afford to buy your
Little Sister
, for example, unless the bidding were forced up to some absurd level. I happen to know that he’d like to have something like her so that he could get the hell off the planet in a hurry if—when—his financial affairs come really unstuck.”

“He’s not a spaceman,” said Grimes.

“There are one or two drunken bums on our books,” said Wendover, “whom we wouldn’t recommend even for a ship-keeping job. Marston would be prepared to employ one of them as yachtmaster if he absolutely had to. And then, assuming that he did make it to some other world, that solid gold ship of yours would give him the capital to make a fresh start.”

“Mphm.”

The car sped through the streets of New Syrtis, came to a stop outside the dome that housed the offices of the Astronauts’ Guild. The robochauffeur announced, “Gentlemen, you are here.”

“We’re here,” said Wendover unnecessarily.

“So I see,” said Grimes.

***

He changed out of his spacesuit in the office washroom, rejoined Wendover and the two lawyers who had been waiting for him in the Secretary’s office. The four men drew coffee from the dispenser, sat around the table to talk.

One of the legal gentlemen was fat, the other was fatter. One was bald but bearded, the other practiced facial depilation but had long, silvery hair plaited in a pigtail which was adorned with a jaunty little bow of tartan silk; a not-uncommon fashion but one which Grimes had never liked.

The pigtail wearer, a Mr. McCrimmon, seemed to be the senior of the pair.

He said, “Let us not beat about the bush. Let us drive to the essentials. I understand, Captain Grimes, that you are desperately in need of money and that you hope that a successful salvage claim in respect of
Bronson Star
will enable you to pay your various debts and resume possession of your own ship.”

“Your understanding is correct,” said Grimes.

“Then I am afraid that I have bad news for you. A claim for salvage on your behalf might, eventually, be successful but it will be a bitter, long drawn out battle. Captain Wendover has already suggested that we cite the
San Demetrio
precedent but, since you did not actually abandon ship and then return to her, this may not be a valid analogy . . .”

“San Demetrio?”
asked Grimes.

“It was an interesting case,” said McCrimmon, speaking as though it had been heard only yesterday. “Very interesting. The officer—who was the major beneficiary—and his crew were, indubitably, morally entitled to pecuniary reward and, as it turned out, also legally entitled. If they had not abandoned ship this would not have been so.

“You are familiar with Terran history, Captain Grimes? You will know of the Second Planetary War, which occurred from 1939 to 1945, Old Reckoning? Much of it was fought at sea and convoys of merchant vessels were harried by surface, submarine and aerial raiders. One such convoy, escorted only by an auxiliary cruiser, a not very heavily armed converted passenger liner, was attacked by a surface raider, a battleship. The auxiliary cruiser put up a valiant but hopeless fight which, however, gave the ships of the convoy a chance to scatter as darkness was falling. One of the merchantmen—an oil tanker, loaded with the highly volatile fuel used by the aircraft of those days—was hit and badly damaged, actually set on fire. Her crew abandoned ship. Miraculously the vessel’s cargo failed to explode.

“Some little time later the Second Officer, who was in charge of one of the lifeboats, decided to reboard. He and his men succeeded in extinguishing the flames and eventually, despite the fact that almost all navigational equipment had been destroyed, brought
San Demetrio
to port.

“The officer and his boat’s crew were, of course, members of
San Demetrio’s
crew. They had all signed the Articles of Agreement. Had they not abandoned ship, had they stayed on board to fight the fires and make the necessary repairs, they would not have been entitled to salvage money. They would merely have been carrying out the duties—admittedly in somewhat abnormal circumstances—that they had signed on for. No doubt the ship’s owners would have made some kind of
ex gratia
payment but there would have been no legal entitlement to reward.

“It was argued, however, that as soon as they had abandoned what was, in effect, a huge, floating bomb the original agreement was no longer valid. Their legal status was that of any outsiders who might have happened to board the vessel to endeavor to save her and her cargo.”

“I think,” said Grimes slowly, “that I see what you’re driving at. But, as far as
Bronson Star
is concerned, was I crew in the legal sense? I was employed by Mr. Marston’s outfit but only as a glorified caretaker. I had signed no Articles of Agreement. My name was not on the Register as Master.”

“A good point, Captain Grimes, and one that Captain Wendover has already raised and one that we shall argue. You must realize, however, that it will be many weeks before a decision is reached by the courts.”

“And meanwhile,” said Grimes bitterly, “I have to eat.”

“You are a rich man, Captain,” said McCrimmon. “Even only as scrap, your ship, constructed as she is from a precious metal, is worth a not so small fortune. My partner and I are willing to handle the sale for you—on a commission basis, of course . . .”

“I don’t want to sell,” said Grimes.

“You may have to,” Wendover told him, not without sympathy.

“You will have to,” said McCrimmon bluntly. But he, not a spaceman, would never be able to appreciate the odd affection, the love, even, that can develop between captains and their ships.

“Think it over, Captain,” went on McCrimmon. “Not that it will be necessary. The
lerrigan
consignees are already taking legal action for the recovery of the monies that you owe them.”

“Well, gentlemen,” said Wendover, “we have enjoyed—if that is the word—our preliminary meeting. And now, Captain Grimes, I must take you to see the Port Captain. The Chief Constable will also be present, in his official capacity. But I am sure that you have nothing to fear from them. You used force, as you were legally entitled to do, to recapture the vessel of which you were legally in change.”

“And after I’ve seen everybody,” asked Grimes, “shall I be entitled to go aboard
Little Sister
?”

“I’m afraid not. She’s been sealed, as you know. She’s security against your many debts. But I’ve booked you into the Astronaut’s Arms. It’s not a bad pub and it’s handy to the spaceport.”

Chapter 38

HE SAT IN HIS ALMOST
comfortable, definitely characterless hotel room. He was smoking his pipe, sipping a large pink gin, his second one. (The first he had gulped.) He looked at the solidograph of Maggie Lazenby standing on the chest of drawers. Maggie had wished him luck. He needed it.

Of course, he admitted, the situation wasn’t altogether desperate. Presumably he would be allowed to sell the ship piecemeal, her fittings before the vessel herself. The autochef, for example, should fetch quite a few credits . . .

But . . .

He looked at the naked figurine in its transparent cube. It would be as though, he thought, he were starving and were carving hunks off Maggie to sustain his own life. A breast one day, an arm the next . . . Then a buttock . . . So it would be with
Little Sister
. She was a masterpiece of interior design and the subtraction of any fitting would ruin her internal symmetry.

The telephone chimed.

Grimes looked at the screen, saw the face of the hotel’s receptionist. He got up, switched the instrument to reception from his end.

“Captain Grimes,” said the girl, “there is a lady here to see you. May I send her up?”

A lady?
he wondered. Susie’s mother, perhaps . . . What could he tell her? Dare he risk telling her that her daughter was, so far as he knew, alive, well and rich?

The almost pretty face of the receptionist was replaced by that of the unattractive fat girl who had tried to interview him at the spaceport.

“Captain Grimes—this is Wendy Wayne here. Of the
Bronson Star
.” She laughed, displaying teeth that would have been better hidden. “No. Not your
Bronson Star
. The weekly paper.”

“I don’t feel like an interview,” said Grimes.

She said, “It’s not an interview I want. I’ve a proposition.”

Grimes refrained from saying something ill-mannered.

She laughed again. “Don’t worry, Captain, I’ve no designs on your body beautiful. I already have a lover—and
she
wouldn’t approve . . .”

“Mphm.”

“Strictly business, Captain. Can I come up?”

“Yes,” said Grimes.

***

“You’ve seen the
Bronson Star
, of course,” she said.

“I have,” admitted Grimes. (There had been a tattered copy of that scurrilous weekly aboard the other
Bronson Star
, the ship.)

“As you know, we like sensational stories, preferably told in the first person. Ghosted, of course . . .”

I Was a Sex Slave on Waldegren,
remembered Grimes.

“Our readers like them too.”

They would,
thought Grimes.

“Your story will be sensational. There must have been some sex. That Lania, for example . . . She had quite a reputation, you know. And that other girl, Susie . . . With those two aboard a ship
anything
might happen!”

“It did,” conceded Grimes.

“And your own name’s not entirely unknown, even on this back of beyond planet. Even our media carried the news of that mutiny aboard
Discovery
. And now you’re news—NEWS!—again. Unluckily we’re not allowed to publish anything about the Dunlevin affair before the full inquiry’s been held; too many interplanetary ramifications. That’s why the wolf pack didn’t really tear you apart when you landed at the spaceport today.”

“But . . .”

“There are other tales you could tell. The full story of the
Discovery
mutiny. What you did when you were captain of the Baroness d’Estang’s spaceyacht. How you came to set up shop as a shipowner in that fantastic
Little Sister
. And weren’t you captured by a Shaara rogue queen on one voyage?”

“So . . .”

“So?” asked Grimes.

“As I’ve said, we can’t publish your story of the Dunlevin adventure until we get a clearance. But we’ll titillate the appetites of our readers with your earlier adventures.
On The Planet Of The Cat Women . . . Space Chauffeur To The Baroness . . . How My Crew Stabbed Me In The Back . . . I was a Shaara Slave . .
.”

“Mphm.”

“We’re willing to pay, of course.”

“How much?” he asked sharply.

She told him.

He borrowed her notebook and stylus from her. He did his sums. There were the damages claimed and won by the New Syrtis Zoo, the court costs. To add to them there were the accumulated port dues and other charges. Then there was the estimated expense of putting
Little Sister
back in commission. The total came to considerably more than Wendy Wayne’s offer. But there was his ship-keeping pay, which had been garnisheed. The subtraction of this did improve the situation but not enough.

He said, “I shall want more than that.”

She said, “You’re a greedy bastard.”

“I want to keep my ship,” he told her. “I don’t want her sold from under me.”

“My nose fair bleeds for you,” she said.

He was tempted to throw this fat, insolent wench out of his room but restrained himself. After all, she represented the only chance he had to get himself off the financial rocks.

He asked, “Do you want my story—or stories—or don’t you?”

“I do,” she said. “My paper does. But we aren’t prepared to give our right arms and a couple of legs for them. There are other stories, you know, that we can get for a damn sight less.” She took the notebook back from him, squinted at the figures that he had written down. “No,” she said. “Repeat, underscore and capitalize NO.”

“Your paper could put me on contract,” he said. “As a sort of roving correspondent . . .”

“Ha!” she snorted. “Ha, bloody ha! And what hold would we have on you once you lifted off this mudball?”

He said, “There’s the salvage award, you know. That could be a security.”

“If and when you get it.
If
being the operative word. Marston’s got legal eagles who’ll tear that fat slob McCrimmon to shreds. But . . . Pour me another gin, will you?”

He did so.

“Roving correspondent . . .” she muttered thoughtfully after the first noisy gulp. “Yes. But not
you
, buster. You’ll just be the chauffeur, working off the good money we’ve paid to get your precious ship out of hock . . .”

“And would
you
be the
Bronson Star’s
roving correspondent?” asked Grimes, his heart sinking. There are some prices too high to pay.